«I   gu.  win 

itf 


I 


The  Twilight  of  the  Souls 


THE  BOOKS  OF  THE 

SMALL  SOULS 

By 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Translated  by 
ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  de  MATTOS 

I. 

SMALL  SOULS. 

II. 

THE  LATER  LIFE. 

III. 

THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS. 

IV. 

DR.  ADRIAAN. 

\Later. 

THE  TWILIGHT 
OF    THE    SOULS 


BY 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Author  of  "Small  Souls, "  M  The  Later  Life,"  etc. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,    MEAD  AND   COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,  1917. 
By   DODD,    MEAD  AND   COMPANY,    INC. 


/in 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

This  is  the  third  of  the  novels  known  as  The  Book  of  the 
Small  Souls  and  is  by  some  considered  the  greatest  of  the 
series.  Be  this  as  it  may— and  I  confess  that  personally  I  like 
Small  Souls  the  best— it  is,  beyond  dispute,  one  of  the  most 
masterly  and  striking  stories  that  this  generation  has  produced. 

It  can  be  read  separately  and  independently,  but  will  be 
enjoyed  more  fully  by  those  who  are  familiar  with  Small  Souls 
and  The  Later  Life.  The  series  will  conclude  with  the  next 
volume,  which,  in  the  English  version,  will  be  entitled  Dr. 
Adriaan. 

Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos 
Harrogate,  io  August,  191 7 


370050 


The  Twilight  of  the  Souls 


- — £.- 


CHAPTER  I 

When  Gerrit  woke  that  morning,  his  head  felt 
misty  and  tired,  as  though  weighed  down  by  a 
mountain  landscape,  by  a  whole  stack  of  mist-mount- 
ains that  bore  heavily  upon  his  brain.  His  eyes 
remained  closed;  and,  though  he  was  waking,  his 
nightmare  still  seemed  to  cast  an  after-shadow :  a 
nightmare  that  he  was  being  crushed  by  great  rocky 
avalanches,  which  he  felt  pressing  deep  down  inside 
his  head,  though  he  was  conscious  that  the  red 
dayligh*-  was  already  dawning  through  his  closed 
eyelids.  He  lay  there,  big  and  burly,  sprawling  in 
his  bed,  beside  Adeline's  empty  bed:  he  felt  that 
her  bed  was  empty,  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room.  The  curtains  had  been  drawn  back,  but  the 
blinds  were  still  down.  And,  though  he  was  awake, 
his  eyelids  remained  closed  and  through  them  he 
saw  only  the  red  of  the  daylight  as  through  two 
pink  shells:  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  never  be  able 
to  lift  those  two  leaden  lids  from  his  eyes. 

This  after-weariness  flowed  slowly  through  his 
great,  burly  body.  He  felt  physically  rotten  and 
did  not  quite  know  why.  The  day  before,  he  had 
merely  dined  with  some  brother-officers  at  the 
restaurant  of  the  Scheveningen  Kurhaus:  a  farewell 


2       THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

dinner  to  one  of  their  number  who  was  being  trans- 
ferred to  Venlo;  and  the  dinner  had  been  a  long 
one;  there  was  a  good  deal  of  champagne  drunk 
afterwards;  and  they  had  gone  on  gaily  to  make 
a  night  of  it.  One  or  two  of  the  married  ones  had 
refused,  good-naturedly,  but  had  come  along  all  the 
same,  so  as  not  to  spoil  sport;  Gerrit  had  come  too, 
in  his  genial  way.  At  last,  he  had  decided  that  that 
was  about  enough  and  that  the  road  which  the 
others  were  taking  was  not  his  road :  he  was  one  of 
your  sensible,  moderate  people,  who  never  went  to 
extremes;  he  was  very  fond  of  his  little  wife;  indeed, 
he  already  felt  some  compunction  at  the  idea  of 
perhaps  waking  her  at  that  time  of  night,  when 
he  went  into  the  bedroom,  after  undressing.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  she  did  wake;  but  he  had  at  once 
reassured  her  with  his  gruff,  good-natured  voice 
and  she  had  gone  to  sleep  again.  He  had  stayed 
awake  a  long  time,  lying  there  with  wide-open  eyes, 
angry  at  not  being  able  to  sleep,  at  having  forgotten 
how  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  the  rest.  At  last, 
in  the  small  hours,  when  it  was  quite  light,  he  had 
slowly  dozed  off  into  a  misty  dreamland;  and 
gradually  the  mists  had  turned  into  solid  land- 
scapes, had  become  a  stack  of  heavy  mountains, 
which  pressed  heavily  upon  his  brain  until  they 
crumbled  down  in  rocky  avalanches. 

Now,  at  last,  he  shook  off  the  strange  heaviness, 
took  his  bath;  and,  when  he  saw  himself  naked — 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS       3 

that  expanse  of  clean,  white  skin,  the  great  body 
built  on  heavy,  sinewy  lines,  a  good-looking,  fair- 
haired  chap  still,  despite  his  eight-and-forty  years — - 
he  wondered  that  he  sometimes  had  those  queer 
moody  fits,  like  a  lady's  lap-dog.  And  now,  as  he 
squeezed  the  streaming  water  over  himself  out  of 
the  great  sponge,  he  tried  to  pooh-pooh  those  moody 
fits,  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  them,  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  kept  on  squeezing  the  sponge,  squeez- 
ing out  the  water  until  it  splashed  and  spattered 
all  around  him.  He  had  the  sensation  of  washing 
the  inertia  from  him;  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  flung 
out  his  chest,  felt  his  strength  returning  and,  still 
naked,  took  his  dumb-bells  and  worked  away  with 
them,  proud  of  a  pair  of  biceps  that  were  like  two 
rolling  cannon-balls.  His  eyes  recovered  their 
usual  jovial  expression,  which  also  played  around 
his  fair  moustache  with  a  roguish  sparkle,  as  of 
inward  mockery;  the  wrinkles  vanished  from  his 
forehead,  which  was  gradually  acquiring  a  loftier 
arch  as  the  crop  of  fair  hair  on  his  head  diminished; 
and  the  blood  seemed  to  be  flowing  normally 
through  his  big  body,  after  the  bath  and  the  five 
minutes'  exercise,  for  his  cheeks,  now  shaved,  became 
tinged  with  an  almost  pink  flush.  And  he  simply 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  dress:  he  looked  at 
himself,  at  his  big,  strong,  clean  body,  which  he 
kneaded  yet  once  more,  as  proud  of  his  muscles  as 
a  woman  of  her  graceful  figure. 


4       THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Then  he  quickly  put  on  his  uniform  and  went 
downstairs  to  breakfast.  The  children  surrounded 
him  instantly;  and  he  at  once  felt  himself  the  father, 
full  of  a  father's  affection,  passionately  fond  as  he 
was  of  his  children.  He  was  only  just  in  time  to 
see  Alex  and  Guy  go  off  with  their  satchels:  the 
school  was  close  by  and  they  went  by  themselves, 
two  sturdy  little  fellows  of  nine  and  seven;  but  the 
other  children,  all  except  the  eldest,  Marietje,  who 
was  also  at  school,  were  eating  their  bread-and- 
butter  at  the  round  table,  while  Adeline  sat  in  front 
of  her  tea-tray.  And  Gerrit,  in  the  little  dining-room, 
at  the  round  table,  felt  himself  become  normal 
again,  quite  normal,  because  of  his  wife  and  his 
children. 

The  dining-room  was  small  and  very  simply  fur- 
nished, containing  only  what  was  strictly  necessary. 
Adeline,  now  thirty-two,  looked  older :  a  plump  little 
mother,  with  not  much  to  say  for  herself,  full  of 
little  cares  for  her  little  brood;  and  Gerrit,  noisy 
and  clamorous,  filling  the  whole  little  room  with 
the  gay  thunder  of  his  drill-sergeant's  voice,  was 
full  of  incessant  jokes  and  fun.  There  were  half- 
a-dozen  younger  ones  round  the  table:  two  girls, 
Adeletje  and  Gerdy;  three  boys:  Constant,  Jan  and 
Piet;  and  the  latest  baby,  a  girl,  Klaasje.  Gerrit 
had  given  the  youngest  three  their  names,  in  his 
annoyance  at  the  high-sounding  names  of  the  others : 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS       5 

Alexander,  Guy,  Geraldine,  christened  after  Ade- 
line's family,  while  Marie  and  Constant  were  called 
after  Mamma  and  Papa  van  Lowe. 

11  Look  here,  not  so  many  of  those  grand  names,'* 
Gerrit  had  said,  when  Jan  was  coming. 

And,  after  Klaasje  ' — a  name  which  the  whole 
family  considered  hideous — Gerrit  said: 

"  If  we  have  another,  it  shall  be  called  after  me, 
Gerrit,2  whether  it's  a  boy  or  a  girl." 

41  Gertrude,  surely,  if  it's  a  girl?"  Adeline  had 
suggested. 

44  No,"  said  Gerrit,  44  she  shall  be  Gerrit  all  the 
same." 

Gerrit's  manias  were  Mamma  van  Lowe's  de- 
spair; but  so  far  there  had  been  no  question  of  a 
grand-daughter  Gerrit. 

Gerrit  had  no  favourites.  His  long  arms  swung 
round  as  many  children  as  he  could  get  hold  of 
and  he  drew  them  on  his  knees,  between  his  knees, 
almost  under  his  feet;  and  by  some  miraculous 
chance  he  had  never  broken  an  arm  or  leg  of  any 
of  them,  so  that  Adeline  and  the  children  them- 
selves were  never  afraid  and  only  Mamma  van 
Lowe,  when  she  witnessed  Gerrit's  embraces,  went 
through  a  thousand  terrors.  And  to  the  children 
the  joy  of  life  seemed  to  be  embodied  in  their 
father,  a  joy  which  they  soon  came  to  picture  in- 
stinctively as  a  tall  man,  an  hussar,  with  a  loud  voice 

1  Nicolcttc.  '  Gerard. 


6       THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  any  number  of  jokes,  a  pair  of  high  riding- 
boots  and  a  clanking  sword. 

Gerdy  was  a  tiny  child  of  seven,  who  loved  being 
petted;  and,  as  soon  as  she  saw  Gerrit,  she  hung 
on  to  him,  nestled  on  his  knees,  rubbed  her  head 
against  the  braid  of  his  uniform,  tugged  at  his 
moustache,  dug  her  little  fists  into  his  eyes.  Or  else 
she  would  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  stay 
like  that,  quietly  looking  at  the  others,  because  she 
had  taken  possession  of  Papa, 

This  time  too  she  left  her  chair,  crept  under  the 
table,  climbed  on  Gerrit's  knees  and  ate  out  of  his 
plate,  although  Adeline  tried  to  prevent  her. 
Gerrit  ate  his  breakfast,  with  Gerdy  on  his  lap ;  and 
the  childish  voices  twittered  all  around  him,  like 
the  voices  of  so  many  little  birds.  And  this  twitter- 
ing produced  a  brightness  in  his  heart,  so  that  he 
began  to  smile  and  then  to  poke  fun  at  Klaasje,  the 
baby  in  her  baby-chair,  sitting  beside  him  rather 
stupidly.  Klaasje,  who  did  not  talk  much  yet,  was 
still  a  little  backward  and  just  fretted  and  whim- 
pered. 

Latterly,  he  had  felt  a  strange  pitying  tenderness 
when  he  looked  at  his  children,  as  though  surprised 
at  all  this  dainty,  flaxen  life  which  he  had  created,  he 
who  had  always  said: 

"Children  are  what  you  want;  without  children 
you  have  no  life;  without  children  nothing  remains 
of  you;  children  carry  you  on." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS       7 

He  had  married,  fairly  late,  a  very  young  wife; 
and  that  had  been  the  reason  of  his  marriage,  the 
root-idea:  to  beget  children,  as  many  children  as 
possible,  because  it  seemed  to  him  a  dismal  thought 
that  nothing  of  him  should  survive.  And  now, 
when  he  looked  around  him,  now  that  Marietje, 
Adeletje  and  Alex  were  twelve  and  ten  and  nine, 
he  sometimes  had,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  a 
strange  feeling  of  wonder  and  pity,  even  of  sad- 
ness, as  though  the  thought  had  suddenly  come  to 
him: 

44  Where  do  they  all  come  from  and  why  are 
they  all  round  me?1' 

A  strange,  wondering  astonishment,  as  though 
at  the  riddle  of  childbirth,  the  secret  of  human  life, 
which  suddenly  became  impenetrable  to  him,  the 
father  and  husband.  Then  he  would  give  a  furtive 
glance  to  see  if  he  could  discover  that  same  won- 
dering astonishment  in  Adeline;  but  no,  she  quietly 
went  her  way,  the  gentle,  fair-haired  little  mother, 
the  domesticated  little  wife,  very  simple  in  soul  and 
limited  in  mind,  who  had  quietly,  as  a  duty,  borne 
her  husband  her  fair-haired  children  and  was 
bringing  them  up  as  she  thought  was  right.  No, 
he  noticed  nothing  in  her  and  he  was  the  more  sur- 
prised, because,  after  all,  she  was  the  mother  and 
therefore  ought  really  to  have  felt  that  strange 
thrill  of  wonder  even  more  than  he  did. 

"  And  all  these  are  my  children,"  he  thought. 


8       THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And,  while  he  boisterously  tickled  Gerdy  and 
pretended  to  eat  up  Klaasje's  bread-and-butter,  like 
the  great  tease  that  he  was,  he  thought: 

"  Now  these  are  all  my  children  and  Adeline's 
children." 

And  he  was  filled  with  wonder  as  he  saw  them 
around  him,  the  pretty,  flaxen-haired  children:  the 
wonder  of  an  artist  at  his  work,  wonder  such  as 
a  sculptor  might  feel  on  contemplating  his  statue, 
or  a  writer  reading  his  book,  or  a  composer 
listening  to  his  melodies,  a  simple,  wondering 
astonishment  that  he  should  have  made  all  that, 
a  wondering  astonishment  at  his  own  power  and 
strength.  ■ 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment,  he 
suddenly  grew  frightened,  frightened  at  having 
heedless  begotten  so  much  life  simply  because  he 
had  been  depressed  by  the  thought  that,  if  he  had 
no  children,  nothing  of  him  would  survive  after  his 
death.  Yes,  they  would  survive  him  now,  his 
children,  his  flaxen-haired  little  tribe,  his  nine;  life 
would  scatter  them,  the  little  brothers  and  sisters 
who  were  now  all  there  together  like  little  birds  in 
the  nest  of  the  parental  house,  sheltered  by  father 
and  mother;  and  what  would  they  be  like,  what 
would  their  life  be,  what  their  sorrow,  what  their 
joy,  when  he  himself,  their  father,  was  old  or  dead? 
He  was  afraid;  a  terror  shot  through  him  strangely 
enough  at  that  breakfast-table  where  he  sat  eating 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS       9 

with  Gerdy  out  of  one  plate  and  teasing  little  Jan 
with  his  jokes,  which  made  the  boy  crow  aloud. 
And  the  strangest  thing  to  him  was  that  no  one 
should  suspect  what  he  was  thinking,  that  it  was 
hidden  from  them  all,  from  Adeline,  from  his 
mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters,  because  in  appear- 
ance he  was  a  great  robust  fellow,  a  sort  of  Goth, 
a  civilized  barbarian,  with  his  flaxen  head  and  his 
white,  sinewy  body,  devoted  to  sport  and  racing, 
revelling  in  his  work  as  an  officer;  outwardly  almost 
commonplace,  with  his  solid,  healthy  normality;  loud 
of  voice,  a  little  vulgar  in  his  jests,  even  exag- 
gerating his  noisiness  and  vulgarity  out  of  a  sort 
of  bravado,  an  instinctive  desire  to  hide  his  real 
self.  Yes,  that  was  it:  he  hid  himself,  he  was 
invisible;  nobody  saw  him,  nobody  knew  him:  not 
his  wife,  nor  his  family,  nor  his  friends;  nobody 
knew  him  in  those  strange  fits  of  giddiness  and 
faintness  which  suddenly  seemed  to  empty  his  brain, 
as  though  all  the  blood  were  flowing  out  of  it; 
nobody  knew  the  secret  of  his  temperateness,  the 
hidden  weakness  that  would  not  even  allow  him 
to  take  two  glasses  of  champagne  without  that  hor- 
rible congestion  at  his  temples  which  made  him  feel 
as  if  his  head  were  bursting;  nobody,  not  even  the 
wife  at  his  side,  knew  of  that  heavy,  oppressive 
nightmare  which  came  to  him  when,  after  lying 
awake  for  hours,  he  dozed  off,  that  nightmare  of 
piled-up  mountains  and  rocky  avalanches  weighing 


io     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

upon  his  brain;  nobody  knew  of  his  fears  and 
anxieties  about  his  children,  while  outwardly  he  was 
the  gay,  jovial  father,  "  a  healthy  brute,"  as  some 
of  his  brother-officers  had  called  him. 

Sometimes,  he  had  silently  thought  of  the  desig- 
nation and  smiled  at  it,  because  he  knew  himself 
to  be  neither  a  brute  nor  healthy.  Gradually,  al- 
most mechanically,  he  had  gone  on  showing  that 
unreal  side,  posing  successfully  as  the  strong  man, 
with  cast-iron  muscles  and  a  simple,  cast-iron  con- 
ception of  life :  to  be  a  good  husband,  a  good  father 
and  a  good  officer;  while  inwardly  he  was  gnawed 
by  a  queer  monster  that  devoured  his  marrow:  he 
sometimes  pictured  it  as  a  worm  with  legs.  A  great, 
fat  worm,  you  know;  a  beastly  crawling  thing, 
which  rooted  with  its  legs  in  his  carcase,  which 
lived  in  his  back  and  slowly  ate  him  up,  year  by 
year,  the  damned  rotten  thing!  Of  course,  it  wasn't 
a  worm:  he  knew  that,  he  knew  it  wasn't  a  worm, 
a  worm  with  legs;  but  it  was  just  like  it,  you  know, 
just  like  a  worm,  a  centipede,  rooting  away  in  his 
back.  Then  he  felt  himself  all  over,  proud  not- 
withstanding of  his  sound  limbs,  his  well-trained, 
supple  muscles,  his  youthful  appearance,  though  he 
was  no  longer  so  very  young;  and  then  it  seemed  to 
him  incomprehensible  that  it  could  be  as  it  was,  that 
that  confounded  centipede  could  keep  worrying 
through  those  limbs,  at  those  muscles,  right  into 
the  marrow  of  his  strong  body.    Nothing  on  earth 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      n 

would  ever  have  induced  him  to  see  a  doctor  about 
it:  he  took  walking-exercise,  horse-exercise,  rode  at 
the  head  of  his  squadron;  and  the  brazen  blare  of 
the  trumpets,  the  dull  thud  of  the  horses*  hoofs, 
the  sight  of  his  hussars — his  lads — would  make  him 
really  happy,  would  make  him  forget  the  con- 
founded centipede  for  a  morning.  As  he  sat  his 
horse,  with  head  erect,  twisting  his  fair  moustache 
above  his  curved  lip,  a  burly,  straight-backed  figure, 
he  would  say  to  himself: 

M  Come,  get  rid  of  all  those  tom-fool  ideas  and  be 
a  man — d'ye  hear? — not  a  nervy,  hypochondriacal 
girl.  You  and  your  centipede!  Rot!  I  just  had 
a  peg  yesterday;  and  that,  damn  it,  is  what  I 
mustn't  do:  no  peg  at  all,  not  one!  .  .  .  Perhaps 
not  even  any  wine  at  all  .  .  .  and  then  not  more 
than  one  cigar  after  dinner.  .  .  .  But,  you  see, 
giving  up  drinking,  giving  up  smoking:  that's  the 
difficulty.  ..." 

Gerrit  had  just  finished  his  breakfast  and  was 
putting  little  Gerdy  down,  when  there  was  a  violent 
ring  at  the  front-door  bell.  Adeline  gave  a  start; 
the  children  shouted  and  laughed: 

44  Ting-a-ling,  ting-a-ling,  ting-a-ling!  "  cried  little 
Piet,  mimicking  the  sound  with  his  mug  against  his 
plate. 

44  Hush !  "  said  Adeline,  turning  pale.  She  had 
seen  Dorine  through  the  window,  walking  up  and 
down  outside  the  door  excitedly,  waiting  for  it  to 


12     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

be  opened.  "  Hush,  it's  Auntie  Dorine.  ...  I 
do  hope  there's  nothing  wrong  at  Grand- 
mamma's! . ..   •" 

But  now  the  maid  had  opened  the  door  and 
Dorine  rushed  into  the  room  excitedly,  perspiring 
under  her  straw  hat,  with  a  face  as  red  as  fire. 
She  was  in  a  furious  temper;  and  it  was  impossible 
at  first  to  make  out  what  she  said: 

"Just  think  .    .    .  just  think  ..'..;■'." 

She  could  not  get  her  words  out;  the  passion 
of  rage  seething  inside  her  made  her  incapable  of 
speaking;  moreover,  she  was  out  of  breath,  because 
she  had  been  walking  very  fast.  Her  hair,  which 
was  beginning  early  to  turn  grey,  stuck  out  in  rat- 
tails  from  under  her  sailor-hat,  which  bobbed  up 
and  down  on  her  head;  her  clothes  looked  even 
more  carelessly  flung  on  than  usual;  and  her  eyes 
blinked  with  a  look  of  angry  malevolence,  a  look 
of  spite  and  discontent  gleaming  through  tears  of 
annoyance. 

"Just  think  .    .    .  just  think  ..." 

"  Come,  Sissy,  calm  yourself  and  tell  us  what's 
the  matter !  "  said  Gerrit,  admonishing  her  in  a 
good-natured,  paternal,  jovial  fashion. 

"Well  then — just  think — that  horrible  creature 
came  to  Mamma  first  thing  this  morning  .  .  .  and 
made  a  scene  .    .    ." 

"What  horrible  creature?" 

"Why,   are  you  all  deaf?     Via  telling  you,  I 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     13 

began  by  telling  you:  Miss  Velders,  the  creature 
who  keeps  the  rooms  where  Ernst  lives  .  .  .  came 
and  made  a  frightful  scene  .  .  .  and  upset 
Mamma  awfully  .  .  .  and  Mamma  sent  for  me. 
Why  me?  Why  always  me?  What  can  I  do? 
I'm  not  a  man!  Why  not  Karel?  Why  not  you? 
.  .  .  Oh  dear  no:  Mamma  of  course  sent  for 
me!  .  .  .  Off  I  went  to  Mamma's,  found  Mamma 
quite  ill,  that  horrible  creature  there.  .  .  .  Then 
I  went  off  with  Miss  Velders  .  .  .  first  to  Karel's 
.  .  .  but  Karel  was  absolutely  indifferent  ...  a 
selfish  pig,  a  selfish  pig:  that's  what  Karel  is.  .  .  . 
Miss  Velders  had  to  go  home.  .  .  .  Then  I  went 
off  to  Ernst  .  .  .  and,  when  I  had  seen  him,  I 
came  on  to  you.  .  .  .  Gerrit,  you're  a  man  .  .  . 
you  know  about  things,  you  know  what  to  do;  I'm 
a  woman  .  .  .  and  I  do  not  know  what's  to  be 
done!" 

Her  voice  was  now  a  wail  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

44  But,  Sissy,  I  don't  yet  know  what's  happened !  " 
said  Gerrit,  quietly. 

44  Why,  Ernst,  I'm  telling  you  .  .  .  Ernst,  I'm 
telling  you   ..." 

44  What  about  him?" 

44  He's  mad!" 

"He's  mad?" 

44  Yes,  he's  mad !  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  go  out 
into  the  street  last  night:  he's  mad!   ..." 


i4     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Adeline  had  rung  for  the  nurse,  who  took  the 
children  away. 

"He's  mad?"  Gerrit  repeated,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  forehead. 

"  He's  mad,"  Dorine  repeated.  "He's  mad. 
He's  mad." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Gerrit,  in  a  vague,  conciliatory 
tone,  w  Ernst  is  always  queer !  " 

"  But  now  he's  mad,  I  tell  you ! "  Dorine 
screamed,  in  a  shrill  voice.  "  If  you  don't  believe 
me,  go  and  see  him.  Don't  you  see,  something's 
got  to  be  done !  I,  I  don't  know  what.  I'm  a 
woman,  do  you  hear,  and  I'm  utterly  unnerved 
myself.  Why  didn't  Mamma  send  for  you  at 
once?  Why  me?  Why  me?  And  Karel  .  .  . 
Karel  is  a  nincompoop.  Karel  at  once  said  that 
he  had  a  cold,  that  he  couldn't  go  out.  Karel? 
Karel's  a  nincompoop.  ...  A  cold,  indeed!  A 
cold,  when  your  brother's  gone  mad  all  of  a  sud- 
den! ..." 

"  But,  when  you  say  mad  ...  is  he  really 
mad?"  asked  Gerrit,  doubtfully. 

"  Well,  go  and  see  him  for  yourself,"  said 
Dorine,  fixing  her  irritated  gaze  full  on  Gerrit. 
"You  go  and  see  him  for  yourself;  and,  when 
you've  seen  him  as  I've  seen  him  .  .  .  then  you 
won't  ask  me  if  he's  mad.  ..." 

"  All  right,"  said  Gerrit.  "  I'll  go  at  once.  I 
must  look  in  at  barracks  first  and  then  ..." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      15 

u  Oh,  you  must  look  in  at  barracks  first,"  said 
Dorine,  angrily.  M  Of  course  you  must  look  in  at 
barracks  first.  And  then,  if  you  have  a  moment 
to  spare  ..." 

11  I  can  go  from  here,"  said  Gerrit,  dejectedly. 
11  Are  you  coming?  " 

44 1  ?  "  screamed  Dorine.  "  Do  you  think  Vm 
going  back  with  you?  No,  thank  you.  I've 
told  Mamma,  I've  told  you  and  now  I'm 
going  home  to  bed.  For,  if  I'm  not  careful 
and  go  trotting  about  wherever  you  send  me,  I 
shall  go  off  my  head  myself.  ...  I?  I'm  going 
to  bed.   ..." 

She  rose,  walked  round  the  table,  sat  down  again; 
and  suddenly  her  voice  changed,  tears  of  pity  came 
into  her  eyes  and  she  wailed: 

"Poor  Mamma!  She's  quite  ill.  .  .  .  What  an 
idea  of  that  horrible  creature's,  to  go  running 
straight  to  Mamma.  Why  frighten  her  like  that? 
Why  not  first  have  told  one  of  us?  .  .  .  I'll  just 
go  round  to  Constance  .  .  .  and  to  Adolphine: 
then  they  can  console  Mamma  a  bit.  .  .  .  You 
call  in  at  Paul's  on  your  way:  he  may  be  able  to 
help  you,  if  there's  anything  to  be  done.  .  .  .  But, 
after  that,  I'm  going  home  to  bed." 

14  Yes,"  said  Gerrit,  "  I'll  go  now." 

And  then  at  once  he  began  to  hesitate:  ought 
he  not  to  go  to  barracks  first?  Should  he  go  first 
to  Paul  ...  or  straight  to  Ernst?    He  went  into 


1 6     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  passage,  strapped  on  his  sword,  put  on  his  cap. 
Dorine  followed  him  out: 

"So  you're  going  to  him?  Well,  when  youVe 
seen  him  .  ...  .  you  won't  ask  me  again  if  he's 
mad." 

And  she  made  a  rush  for  the  front-door. 

"Dorine   ..." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  excitedly.  "  I'm 
going  to  Constance;  to  Adolphine  .  .  .  and  then 
.   .   .  then  I  shall  go  home  to  bed." 

She  had  opened  the  door  and,  in  another  mo- 
ment, she  was  gone.  Gerrit  saw  Adeline  weeping, 
wringing  her  hands  in  terror: 

44  Oh,  Gerrit!" 

44  Come,  come,  I  don't  expect  it's  so  very  bad. 
Ernst  has  always  been  queer." 

44 1  shall  go  to  Mamma,  Gerrit." 

44  Yes,  darling,  but  don't  make  her  nervous.  Tell 
her  that  I'm  on  my  way  to  Ernst  and  that  I  don't 
believe  he's  so  bad  as  all  that.  Dorine  always 
exaggerates  and  she  hasn't  told  us  what  Ernst  is 
like.  .  .  .  There,  good-bye,  darling,  and  don't  cry. 
Ernst  has  always  been  queer." 

He  flung  his  great-coat  over  his  shoulders,  for 
the  weather  was  like  November,  cold  and  wet. 
Outside,  the  pelting  rain  beat  against  his  face;  and 
he  saw  Dorine  ahead  of  him,  wobbling  down  the 
street  under  her  umbrella,  with  that  angry,  strad- 
dling   walk    of    hers.     She    turned    out    of    the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      17 

Bankastraat  on  the  left,  into  the  Kerkhoflaan,  on 
her  way  to  Constance.  He  took  the  tram  and,  in 
spite  of  the  rain,  stood  on  the  platform,  with  his 
military  great-coat  flapping  round  his  burly  figure, 
because  he  was  stifling,  as  with  a  painful  congestion, 
and  felt  his  veins,  surfeited  with  blood,  hammering 
at  his  temples: 

41  That  confounded  champagne  last  night !"  he 
thought.  "  I  don't  feel  clear  in  my  head.  .  .  .  I'd 
better  go  to  Paul  first.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'd  better  go  to 
Paul  first.  ...  Or  ...  or  shall  I  go  straight 
to  Ernst?  ..." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  decide  and  yet  he  had 
to  make  up  his  mind  while  his  tram  was  going  along 
the  Dennenweg,  for  Ernst  lived  in  the  Nieuwe 
Uitleg.  But,  because  he  did  not  know,  he  remained 
on  the  tram,  on  the  platform,  with  his  back  bent 
under  the  pelting  rain;  and  it  was  not  until  he 
reached  the  Houtstraat  that  he  jumped  down,  his 
sword  clanking  between  his  legs. 

Paul  lived  in  rooms  above  a  hosier's  shop. 
Gerrit  found  his  brother  still  in  bed: 

44  Ernst  is  mad,"  he  said,  at  once. 

44  He's  always  been  that,"  replied  Paul,  yawning. 

44  Yes,  but  ...  it  appears  that  he's  absolutely 
mad  now,"  said  Gerrit. 

He  felt  so  seedy  and  heavy-witted  that  he  could 
hardly  speak:  his  swollen  tongue  lolled  between  his 
teeth.    However,  he  told  Paul  about  Dorine's  visit: 


1 8     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  We  must  go  on  to  Ernst,  Paul,  and  see  how 
much  there  is  in  it." 

Paul  was  listening  now: 

"  Ye-es,"  he  drawled.  "  But  I  must  dress  myself 
first.  You  see,  the  curious  thing  about  this  world 
is  that,  whatever  happens,  we  have  first  to  dress 
ourselves  .    .    ."• 

"  I  was  dressed,"  laughed  Gerrit. 

44  Oh,  really!  "  said  Paul,  amiably.  "Well,  that 
was  lucky." 

There  was  a  note  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone  which 
escaped  Gerrit,  in  his  dull  condition. 

Paul,  stretching  himself,  decided  to  get  up.  And 
for  a  moment  he  remained  standing  in  front  of 
Gerrit,  in  his  pink  pyjamas: 

"  Do  you  think  Ernst  is  really  mad?  "  he  asked. 

"  Perhaps  it's  not  so  bad  as  that,"  Gerrit  ven- 
tured. 

"  Everybody  is  a  little  mad,"  said  Paul. 

"  Oh,  I  say!"  said  Gerrit,  in  an  offended 
voice. 

"  No,  not  you,"  said  Paul,  genially.  "  Not  you 
or  I.  But  everybody  else  has  a  tile  loose.  I'm 
going  to  have  my  bath." 

11  Don't  be  long." 

"  All  right." 

Paul  disappeared  in  his  little  bathroom;  and 
Gerrit,  who  was  suffocating,  flung  open  the  windows, 
so  that  the  bedroom  suddenly  became  filled  with 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      19 

the  patter  of  the  summer  rain.  And  Gerrit  looked 
around  him.  He  had  hardly  ever  been  here,  at 
Paul's;  and  he  was  now  struck  by  the  exquisite  tidi- 
ness of  the  rooms.  Paul  had  a  bedroom,  a  sitting- 
room  and  a  dressing-room  in  which  he  had  installed 
his  tub. 

k  What  a  tidy  beggar  he  is!  "  thought  Gerrit  and 
looked  around  him. 

The  bedroom  was  small  and  contained  nothing  but 
a  brass  bedstead,  a  walnut  looking-glass  wardrobe, 
a  walnut  table  and  two  chairs.  There  was  not  a 
single  object  lying  about.  The  pillows  on  the  bed 
showed  just  the  faintest  impress  of  Paul's  head; 
the  bed-clothes  he  had  thrown  well  back,  when  he 
got  up,  very  neatly,  as  though  to  avoid  creasing 
them. 

Gerrit  heard  the  ripple  of  water  in  the  dressing- 
room.  It  was  as  if  Paul  were  squeezing  out  the 
sponge  with  exquisite  precaution,  so  as  not  to 
splash  a  single  drop  outside  his  tub.  The  bath 
lasted  a  long  time.    Then  all  was  silence. 

"  Can't  you  hurry  a  bit?"  cried  Gerrit,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  All  right,"  Paul  called  back,  in  placid  tones. 

"What  are  you  up  to?  I  don't  hear  you 
moving." 

M  I'm  doing  my  feet." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  can't  you  get  on  a  bit  faster? 
Or  shall  I  go  on?" 


2o     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  No,  no,  I  wouldn't  miss  going  with  you.  But 
I  must  get  dressed  first,  mustn't  I?  " 

"  But  can't  you  make  haste  about  it?" 

14  Very  well,  I'll  hurry." 

There  came  a  few  sharp,  ticking  sounds  as  of 
scissors  and  nail-files  that  were  being  put  down  on 
the  ringing  marble.  Gerrit  breathed  again.  But, 
when  everything  became  silent  once  more,  Gerrit, 
after  an  interval,  cried: 

"Paul!" 

"Yes?" 

"Will  you  soon  be  ready  now?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  don't  be  impatient.  I'm  shaving. 
You  wouldn't  have  me  cut  myself?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  we  must  look  sharp : 
you  don't  know  what  sort  of  state  Ernst  may  be  in." 

Paul  did  not  answer;  and  Gerrit  heard  nothing 
more,  except  the  swish  of  the  rain.  He  heaved  a 
deep  sigh,  moved  about  restlessly,  stretching  out 
his  long  legs.  After  some  minutes,  which  seemed 
hours  to  Gerrit,  Paul  opened  the  door,  but  closed 
it  again  at  once: 

"Gerrit,  will  you  please  shut  the  window!"  he 
cried,  angrily. 

Gerrit  fastened  the  window;  the  rain  no  longer 
pattered  into  the  room.  Paul  now  came  in:  he 
was  in  a  sleeveless  flannel  vest  and  knitted-silk 
drawers;  a  pair  of  striped  socks  clung  tightly  to  his 
ankles;  his  feet  were  in  slippers. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     21 

11  Good  Lord,  my  dear  chap,  have  you  only  got 
as  far  as  that?"  asked  Gerrit,  irritably. 

Paul  looked  at  him,  a  little  superciliously: 

"  No  doubt  you  fling  yourself  into  your  uniform 
in  three  minutes;  but  I  can't  do  that.  Since 
one  has  to  dress  one's  self  and  can't  just  shake 
one's  feathers  like  a  bird,  I  at  least  want  to 
dress  myself  with  care  .  .  .  for  otherwise  I  feel 
disgusting." 

44  But  do  remember  ...  if  Ernst  ..." 

11  Ernst  won't  go  any  madder  than  he  is  because 
I  dress  myself  properly  and  keep  you  waiting  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  longer.  I  can't  dress  any 
quicker." 

44  Because  you  don't  choose  to!" 

"  Because  I  don't  choose  to?"  retorted  Paul, 
pale  with  indignation.  "  Because  I  don't  choose 
to?  Because  I  can't.  I  can't  do  it.  Do  you  want 
me  to  go  as  I  am?  In  my  drawers?  Very  well; 
then  send  for  a  cab.  I'll  go  like  this,  just  as  I  am. 
But,  if  you  want  me  to  dress  myself,  you  must  have 
a  little  patience." 

44  Oh,  all  right!  "  Gerrit  sighed,  wearily.  44  Oof! 
Get  on  with  your  dressing." 

Paul  opened  a  door  of  his  wardrobe.  Gerrit 
saw  his  shirts  lying  very  neatly  arranged,  coloured 
shirts  and  white  shirts.  Paul  stood  hesitating  for 
a  moment,  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  rain 
and  at  last  selected  from  the  coloured  stack  a  shirt 


22     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

with  black  stripes.  He  put  the  stack  straight  and 
hunted  for  his  studs  in  his  jewel-case. 

"  How  much  longer  will  you  be?  "  asked  Gerrit. 

"  Ten  minutes,"  said  Paul,  lying  angrily,  though 
he  was  inwardly  delighted  to  make  Gerrit  lose  his 
temper. 

He  found  a  set  of  niello  studs  and  links  that 
went  well  with  the  black-striped  shirt  and  de- 
liberately and  neatly  put  them  into  the  front  and 
cuffs. 

Gerrit  rose  impatiently  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room.  Through  the  open  partition-door,  he 
saw  the  bathroom  and  was  surprised  to  find  every- 
thing tidied  up,  with  not  a  drop  of  water  anywhere. 

"Do  you  do  your  wash-hand-stand  yourself?" 
asked  Gerrit,  in  amazement. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Paul,  who  was  now  getting 
into  his  shirt.  "  Did  you  think  I  left  that  to  the 
servant?  Never!  She  has  nothing  to  do  but  empty 
my  slop-pail.  I  do  my  tub,  my  basin,  my  soap- 
trays,  everything  myself.  I  have  separate  cloths 
for  everything:  there  they  are,  hanging  on  a  rail. 
The  world  is  dirty  enough  as  it  is,  however  tidy 
one  may  be." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Gerrit,  astounded,  "  you 
haven't  been  so  long  after  all !  " 

"  It's  method,"  replied  Paul,  airily,  though  se- 
cretly flattered  by  Gerrit's  remark.  "When  you 
have  method,  nothing  takes  long." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     23 

And,  basking  in  Gerrit's  praise,  he  rang,  while 
pulling  on  his  trousers,  and  told  the  maid  to  bring 
his  breakfast: 

11  I'll  only  take  a  hurried  bite,"  he  said,  amiably, 
just  bending  the  points  of  his  stand-up  collar  at 
the  tips. 

Then  he  picked  out  a  tie,  in  a  large  Japanese 
box. 

u  By  Jove,  what  a  number  of  ties  you  have !  M 

11  Yes,  I  have  a  lot  of  them/'  said  Paul,  proudly. 
"  They're  my  only  luxury." 

And  in  fact,  when  the  maid  pushed  back  the 
folding-doors,  revealing  the  sitting-room,  which 
Paul,  loathing  other  people's  furniture,  had  fur- 
nished himself,  in  addition  to  his  other  two  rooms, 
Gerrit  was  struck  with  the  plainness  of  it:  com- 
fortable, but  exceedingly  simple. 

11  I  adore  pretty  things,"  said  Paul,  "  just  as 
much  as  our  mad  Ernst.  But  I  can't  afford  them: 
I  haven't  the  money." 

11  Why,  you  have  the  same  income  that  he 
has." 

44  Yes,  but  he  doesn't  dress.  To  dress  yourself 
well  is  expensive." 

Paul's  dressing  was  now  finished;  and  he  had 
turned  up  the  bottoms  of  his  trousers  very  high, 
showing  nearly  the  whole  of  his  well-cut  button- 
boots.  He  merely  drank  a  cup  of  tea,  ate  a  piece 
of  dry  bread. 


24     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Butter's  so  greasy,"  he  said,  "  when  youVe  just 
brushed  your  teeth." 

And  he  went  back  to  his  bathroom  to  rinse  his 
mouth  once  more. 

He  was  ready  now,  took  his  umbrella  and  fol- 
lowed Gerrit  down  the  stairs.  Gerrit  opened  the 
door. 

"  What  beastly  weather !  "  growled  Paul,  furi- 
ously, in  the  passage. 

He  drew  his  umbrella  carefully  out  of  its  case, 
while  Gerrit  was  already  outside,  with  his  blue 
military  coat  flapping  round  his  shoulders,  because 
he  had  not  put  his  arms  through  the  sleeves. 

"What  a  filthy  mess!"  raved  Paul.  "This 
damned,  rotten  mud!  "  he  cursed,  pale  with  rage. 

He  had  folded  up  the  umbrella-case  and  slipped 
it  into  his  pocket  and  was  now  opening  his  um- 
brella :  he  seemed  to  fear  that  it  would  get  wet. 

"  Come  on !  "  he  said,  seething  with  inward  rage. 

And,  taking  a  desperate  resolve,  he  stepped 
aside,  fiercely  slammed  the  front-door  and  carefully 
placed  his  feet  upon  the  pavement: 

"  We'll  wait  for  the  tram,"  he  said. 

He  glared  at  the  rain  from  under  his  umbrella: 

"What  a  dirty  sky!  "  he  grumbled,  while  Gerrit 
paced  up  and  down,  only  half-listening  to  what 
Paul  said.  "What  a  damned  dirty  sky!  Dirty 
rain,  filthy  streets,  mud,  nothing  but  mud.  The 
whole  world  is  mud.    Properly  speaking,  everything 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     25 

is  mud.  Heavens,  will  the  world  ever  be  clean  and 
the  people  in  it  clean:  towns  with  clean  streets, 
people  with  clean  bodies?  At  present,  they're  mud, 
nothing  but  mud:  their  streets,  their  bodies  and 
their  filthy  souls!    .    .  .." 

The  tram  came  and  they  had  to  get  in ;  and  Paul, 
in  his  heart  of  hearts,  regretted  this  for,  as  long 
as  he  had  stood  muttering  under  his  umbrella,  he 
could  still  yield  to  his  desire  to  go  on  raving,  even 
though  Gerrit  was  not  listening.  They  got  out  in 
the  Dennenweg;  but  by  this  time  he  had  lost  the 
thread  of  his  argument  and  moreover  he  had  to 
be  careful  not  to  step  in  the  puddles: 

44  Don't  walk  so  fast ! "  he  said,  crossly,  to 
Gerrit.  44  And  mind  where  you  walk:  it's  all 
splashing  around  me.'1 

They  were  now  in  the  Nieuwe  Uitleg.  That 
ancient  quarter  was  quite  dark,  soaked  in  the  ever- 
lasting rain  that  fell  perpendicularly  between  the 
trees,  like  curtains  of  violet  beads,  and  clattered 
into  the  canal. 

44  Do  you  think  he's  really  mad?  "  asked  Gerrit, 
nervously,  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  down 
at  his  trousers  and  boots.  He  was  satisfied  with 
himself;  he  had  walked  very  carefully:  he  had 
hardly  a  single  splash.  A  fat  landlady  opened  the 
door: 

44  Ah !    .    .    .    I'm  glad  you've  come,  gentlemen. 


26     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

.  .  .  Meneer  is  quite  calm  now.  .  .  .  And  have 
you  been  to  a  doctor?" 

"A  doctor?"  said  Gerrit,  startled. 

"A  doctor,"  thought  Paul.  "  Just  so:  we've 
been  practical,  as  usual." 

But  he  didn't  say  it. 

They  went  upstairs.  They  found  Ernst  in  his 
dressing-gown;  his  black  hair,  which  he  wore  long, 
lay  in  tangled  masses  over  his  forehead.  He  did 
not  get  up;  he  gazed  at  his  two  brothers  with  a 
look  of  intense  melancholy.  He  was  now  a  man  of 
forty-three,  but  seemed  older,  his  hair  turning  grey, 
his  appearance  neglected,  as  though  his  shoulders 
had  sunk  in,  as  though  something  were  broken  in 
his  spinal  system.  He  did  not  appear  very  much 
surprised  at  seeing  the  two  of  them;  only  his  sad 
eyes  wandered  from  one  to  the  other,  scrutinizing 
them  suspiciously. 

And  all  at  once  the  two  brothers  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  Gerrit  filled  the  room  with  his  restless 
movements  and  nearly  knocked  down  a  couple  of 
Delft  jars  with  the  skirts  of  his  wet  great-coat. 
Paul  was  the  first  to  speak: 

"Aren't  you  well,  Ernst?" 

"  I'm  quite  well." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  was  the  matter  with  you  last  night?" 

"  Nothing.    I  was  suffocating." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     27 

"Are  you  better  now?" 

"Yes." 

He  seemed  to  be  speaking  mechanically,  under 
the  influence  of  the  last  glimmer  of  intelligence,  for 
his  voice  sounded  uncertain  and  unreal,  as  though 
he  were  not  quite  conscious  of  what  he  was 
saying. 

11  Come,  old  chap,"  said  Gerrit,  with  good- 
natured  bluntness,  laying  his  hand  on  Ernst's 
shoulder. 

As  he  did  so,  Ernst's  expression  changed;  his 
eyes  lost  their  look  of  intense  melancholy  and 
became  hard,  staring  hard  and  black  from  their 
sockets,  like  two  black  marbles.  He  had  turned 
his  head  in  a  stiff  quarter-circle  towards  Gerrit; 
and  the  hard  gleam  of  those  black  marbles  bored 
into  Gerrit's  blue  Norse  eyes  with  such  strange 
fierceness  that  Gerrit  started.  And,  under  his 
brother's  big  hand,  which  still  lay  on  his  shoulder, 
Ernst's  limp  body  seemed  to  be  turned  to  stone,  to 
become  rigid,  hard  as  a  rock.  He  stiffened  his 
lips,  his  arms,  his  legs  and  feet  and  remained  like 
that,  motionless,  evidently  suffering  physical  and 
moral  torture,  shrinking  under  the  pressure  of 
Gerrit's  hand,  without  knowing  how  to  get  rid  of 
that  pressure.  He  remained  motionless,  stark; 
every  muscle  was  tense,  every  nerve  quivered;  Ernst 
seemed  to  shrink  and  harden  under  Gerrit's  touch 
just  as  a  caterpillar  shrinks  and  becomes  hard  when 


28     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

it  feels  itself  touched.  As  soon  as  Gerrit  removed 
his  hand,  the  tension  relaxed  and  Ernst's  body  hud- 
dled together  again,  as  though  something  had  given 
way  in  the  spinal  system. 

u  Ernst,"  said  Paul,  "  wouldn't  you  do  well  to  get 
some  sleep?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  go  to  bed  again.  There 
are  three  of  them  under  the  bed." 

"Three  what?" 

"  Three.    They're  chained  up." 

"  Chained  up  ?    Who's  chained  up  ?  " 

"  Three.    Three  souls." 

"Three  souls?" 

"  Yes.  The  room's  full  of  them.  They  are  all 
fastened  to  my  soul.  They  are  all  riveted  to  my 
soul.  With  chains.  Sometimes  they  break  loose. 
But  I  was  dragging  two  of  them  with  me  for  ever 
so  long  yesterday,  in  the  street,  over  the  cobble- 
stones. They  were  in  pain,  they  were  crying.  I 
can  hear  them  now  in  my  ears,  crying,  crying.  ... 
There  are  three  under  the  bed.  They're  asleep. 
When  I  go  to  bed,  they  wake  up  and  rattle  their 
chains.  Let  them  sleep.  They  are  tired,  they  are 
unhappy.  As  long  as  they're  asleep,  they  don't 
know  about  it.  ...  I  ...  I  can't  sleep.  I 
haven't  slept  for  weeks.  They  only  sleep  when 
I'm  awake.  They're  fastened  to  me.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  hear  them?  The  room  is  full  of  them.  They 
belong  to  every  age  and  period.    I've  gathered  them 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      29 

around  me,  collected  them  from  every  age  and 
period.  They  were  hiding  in  the  jars,  in  the  old 
books,  in  the  old  charts.  I  have  some  belonging  to 
the  fourteenth  century.  They  used  to  hide  in  the 
family-papers.  The  first  moment  I  saw  them,  they 
rose  up,  the  poor  souls  .  .  .  with  all  their  sins  upon 
them,  all  their  past.  They  are  suffering  .  .  .  they 
are  in  purgatory.  They  chained  themselves  on  to 
me,  because  they  know  that  I  shall  be  kind  to  them 
.  .  .  and  now  they  refuse  to  leave  me.  I  drag 
them  with  me  wherever  I  go,  wherever  I  stand, 
wherever  I  sit.  Their  chains  pull  at  my  body.  They 
hurt  me  sometimes,  but  they  can't  help  it.  .  .  . 
Last  night  .  .  .  last  night,  the  room  was  so  full 
of  souls  that  there  was  a  cloud  of  them  all  round 
me;  and  I  was  suffocating.  I  wanted  to  go  out, 
but  the  landlady  and  her  brother  prevented  me. 
They  are  a  miserable  pair:  they  would  have  let  me 
die  of  suffocation.  They  are  a  pair  of  brutes  too: 
they  tread  on  the  poor  souls.  Do  you  hear  .  .  . 
on  the  stairs?  Do  you  hear  their  feet?  They  are 
treading  on  the  souls.   .    .    ." 

Paul's  face  was  white;  and  he  said,  nervously 
trying  to  change  the  subject : 

44  Have  you  seen  Dorine  this  morning,  Ernst?" 

Ernst  looked  at  his  brother  suspiciously: 

44  No,"  he  said,  4'  I  have  not  seen  her." 

44  She  was  here,  wasn't  she?" 

14  No,  I  haven't  seen  her,"  he  said,  suspiciously; 


3o     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  his  eyes  wandered  round,  as  though  he  were 
looking  for  something  in  the  room. 

The  two  brothers  followed  his  gaze  mechanically. 
Everything  about  the  large,  comfortable  sitting- 
room  suggested  the  man  of  taste  and  culture,  of 
quiet  and  introspective  temperament,  but  acutely 
sensitive  to  line  and  form.  The  sombreness  of  the 
ceiling,  wall-paper  and  carpet  stood  out  against  the 
yet  greater  sombreness  of  old  oak  and  old  books; 
and  a  very  strange  note  of  blue  and  other  colours 
was  struck  in  the  midst  of  it  all  by  the  pottery, 
which  was  not  all  old,  but  included  some  examples 
of  more  recent  art.  The  modern  harmonies  of  line 
and  the  very  latest  discoveries  in  earthenware  sud- 
denly appeared  with  their  weird  flourishes  in  vases, 
jars,  pots,  like  enamelled  flowers,  from  modern  con- 
servatories, that  had  sprung  up  in  the  shadows  of 
some  old,  dark  forest.  On  the  book-shelves  too, 
the  brown  leather  bindings  of  the  ancient  folios 
were  relieved  by  the  direct  contact  of  the  yellow 
wrappers  of  the  latest  French  literature  or  the 
art-nouveau  covers  of  the  most  modern  Dutch 
novels.  This  lonely,  silent  man,  who  walked  shyly 
through  the  streets,  gliding  along  the  walls  of  the 
houses;  who  had  no  friends,  no  acquaintances;  who 
only  on  Sunday  evenings — because  he  dared  not 
stay  away,  from  a  last  remnant  of  respect  for  ma- 
ternal authority — consented  to  suffer  martyrdom 
among  the  assembled  members  of  his  family,  even 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     31 

to  the  extent  of  taking  a  hand  at  bridge:  this  man 
seemed,  hidden  from  every  one  of  them,  to  lead  a 
rich,  abundant  life,  a  secret,  inner  life,  a  life  not  of 
one  age  but  of  many.  Because  he  never  spoke,  they 
looked  upon  him  as  a  crank;  but  he  had  lived  his 
years  abundantly.  Had  he  filled  his  silent,  uncom- 
panioned  loneliness  too  full  with  the  ghosts  of 
literature,  history  and  art?  Had  the  ghosts  loomed 
up  and  come  to  life  around  him,  in  that  dark  and 
gloomy  room,  where  the  old  and  modern  porcelain 
and  earthenware  glowed  and  rioted  around  him 
with  the  haunting  brilliancy  of  their  colours  and 
glazes,  of  their  tortured,  gorgeous  curves  and 
outlines? 

The  two  brothers,  who  had  come  because  they 
thought  their  brother  mad,  looked  round  the  room; 
and  to  both  of  them  the  room  also  seemed  mad. 
To  the  captain  of  hussars,  whose  earlier  depression 
had  passed  off,  who  suddenly  felt  himself  becoming 
healthy  and  normal  again  as  he  listened  to  his 
eccentric  brother's  ravings,  the  room  became  a  de- 
mented room,  because  it  lacked  a  trophy  of  arms, 
riding-whips,  prints  of  horses  and  dogs  and  the 
oleograph  of  a  naked  woman,  bending  backwards 
and  laughing.  To  the  other  brother  the  room  also 
seemed  demented  because  here  the  vase  was  no 
longer  an  ornament,  because  the  vase  had  become 
a  morbid  thing,  like  a  many-coloured  weed,  grow- 
ing in  rank  profusion  among  the  dark  shadows  of 


32      THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  curtains  and  oak  book-cases.  To  Paul  the  room 
seemed  demented  because  there  was  dust  on  the 
books  and  because  the  basket  full  of  torn  paper 
had  not  been  emptied.  But  to  both  of  them  the 
man  Ernst  himself  seemed  more  demented  than  the 
room:  the  man  Ernst,  their  brother,  an  eccentric 
fellow  whom  for  years  they  had  been  compelled  to 
think  "  queer  "  because  he  was  different  from  any 
of  them.  When  he  confessed  to  them  that  his  room 
was  full  of  souls,  souls  that  hovered  round  him 
like  a  cloud  until  he  was  on  the  point  of  suffocating, 
souls  that  chained  themselves  to  him  and  rattled 
their  chains,  they  thought  that  he  was  raving,  that 
he  was  stammering  insane  words.  It  was  the  view 
of  both  of  them,  the  view  of  normal,  healthy  men, 
outwardly  sane  in  their  senses,  in  their  gestures, 
expression  and  language,  because  their  gestures, 
expression  and  language  did  not  clash  with  those  of 
the  people  about  them,  whatever  they  might  some- 
times feel  deep  down  in  themselves.  But  to  the 
man  himself,  to  Ernst,  his  own  view  was  the  normal, 
the  very  ordinary  view;  and  he  thought  his  two 
brothers  Gerrit  and  Paul  queer  and  eccentric  be- 
cause he  was  able,  in  his  furtive  way,  to  see  that 
neither  of  them  noticed  anything  of  the  innumerable 
souls,  though  these  writhed  so  pitifully  and 
thronged  so  closely  around  him,  as  though  he  were 
in  purgatory.  To  him  there  was  nothing  mad  or 
insane  in  his  room,  in  his  words,  or  in  any  part  of 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     33 

him.  He  looked  upon  them  as  mad,  he  looked  upon 
himself  as  sensible.  When,  last  night,  he  tried  to  go 
out  in  his  nightshirt,  because  the  souls  pressed  upon 
him  until  he  felt  as  if  he  were  suffocating  in  the 
throng,  he  had  simply  wanted  air,  nothing  but  air, 
had  wanted  to  breathe  without  the  discomfort  of 
clothes,  coat  or  waistcoat,  upon  his  chest;  and  he  had 
thought  it  quite,  natural  that  he  should  go  down- 
stairs with  a  candle  and  try  to  open  the  door  with 
his  key.  Then  the  fat  landlady  and  her  lout  of  a 
brother  had  heard  him  and  had  come  upon  him, 
making  a  great  to-do  with  their  silly  hands  and 
their  loud  voices;  and  the  two,  the  fat  landlady 
and  her  lout  of  a  brother,  had  stood  there  shouting 
and  gesticulating  like  a  pair  of  lunatics  while  he 
had  already  loosened  the  chain  from  the  front- 
door and  felt  the  draught  doing  him  so  much  good, 
because  it  blew  upon  his  bare  flesh  under  his  flap- 
ping shirt.  Then  Ernst  had  become  angry,  because 
the  fat  landlady  and  her  .lout  of  a  brother  did  not 
listen  to  what  he  said:  he  had  a  soft  voice,  which 
could  not  cope  with  the  rough,  loud,  vulgar  voices 
of  people  without  feeling,  of  people  without  soul, 
knowledge  or  understanding.  He  had  become 
angry,  because  the  brother,  the  coarse  brute,  had 
locked  the  door  again,  dragged  him  away,  hauled 
him  up  the  stairs;  and  he  had  struck  the  brother. 
But  the  brother,  who  was  stronger  than  he  was,  had 
hit    him,    hit   him   on   the    chest,    which    had   been 


34     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

bursting  before  and  at  that  had  become  still  worse, 
because  all  the  souls  had  thronged  against  him  in 
terror,  beseeching  him  to  protect  them.  And, 
roughly,  rudely,  like  the  unfeeling  brutes  that  they 
were,  the  fat  landlady  and  her  lout  of  a  brother 
had  dragged  him  upstairs  between  them;  and,  as 
they  dragged  him,  they  had  trodden  not  only  on  his 
bare  feet  but  also  on  the  poor  souls !  Their  vulgar 
slippers,  their  clumsy,  caddish  feet  had  trodden  on 
the  poor,  poor  tender  souls,  trodden  on  them  in 
the  passage  and  along  the  stairs;  and  he  heard  them 
panting  and  sobbing,  so  loudly,  so  loudly,  in  their 
mortal  anguish,  that  he  could  not  understand  why 
the  whole  town  had  not/  come  running  up  in  sheer 
alarm,  to  see  the  poor  souls  and  help  them.  Oh, 
how  they  had  moaned  and  gnashed  their  teeth,  oh, 
how  they  had  sobbed  and  lamented,  most  terribly! 
And  nobody  had  come.  Nobody  would  hear. 
They  had  refused  to  hear,  those  townsfolk;  no 
rescue  had  arrived;  and  the  two  brutes,  that  fat  land- 
lady and  that  wretched  cad  of  a  fellow,  her  brother, 
had  hauled  him  along,  up  the  stairs,  into  his  room, 
had  flung  him  in,  locked  the  door  behind  him  and 
barricaded  the  door  on  the  outside.  And  in  the 
passage,  caught  in  the  front-door,  on  the  landing, 
caught  in  the  door  of  his  room,  lay  the  poor  panting, 
sobbing  souls;  they  lay  trodden  and  trampled,  as 
if  a  rough  crowd  had  danced  on  those  tender 
gossamer  beings,  on  their  frail  bodies;  and  he  had 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     35 

spent  the  whole  night  sitting  on  a  chair  in  a  corner 
of  his  room,  shivering  in  his  nightshirt,  in  the  dark, 
listening  to  the  lamentations  of  the  souls,  hearing 
them  wring  their  hands,  hearing  them  pray  for  his 
pity,  for  his  commiseration,  for  they  knew  that  he 
loved  them,  that  he  would  not  hurt  them,  the  poor 
souls.  .  .  .  He  understood,  yes,  he  understood 
that  those  two  brutes,  the  woman  and  her  brother, 
thought  that  he  was  mad.  But  he  had  only  wanted 
to  breathe  the  cool  night-air,  to  feel  the  cool  night- 
air  blowing  over  his  hot  limbs,  which  were  all 
aglow  because,  in  bed,  the  souls  pressed  so  close 
upon  him,  though  he  tried  to  push  them  softly  from 
him.  It  wasn't  mad,  surely,  to  want  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  to  want  to  feel  the  cool  air  blowing  over 
one's  self.  That  was  all  he  wanted.  .  .  .  And,  in 
the  morning  .  .  .  yes,  he  had  seen  her  at  the  door, 
opening  it  very  carefully.  He  had  seen  the  face 
of  his  sister  Dorine  that  morning,  seen  her 
grimacing  and  laughing  and  cackling,  with  a  devilish 
grin,  glad,  she  too,  at  the  sight  of  the  frail  bodies 
of  the  poor  souls  lying  trampled  on  the  stairs  and 
in  the  passage;  but  he  had  been  clever:  he  had 
remained  sitting  in  his  shirt,  in  the  corner  of  his 
room,  and  pretended  not  to  see  her  and  taken  no 
notice  of  her  devilish  grin,  so  as  not  to  satisfy  her 
evil  pleasure.  .  .  .  Then  at  last  the  poor  souls  that 
still  lived  had  settled  down:  he  had  lulled  their 
fears  with  gentle  words  of  consolation.    Then  they 


3  6.     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

had  fallen  asleep  around  him;  and  he  had  been  able 
to  get  up  softly,  without  rattling  their  chains,  and 
wash  his  face,  put  on  his  trousers,  his  socks,  his 
dressing-gown.  .  .  .  What  were  his  brothers  doing 
now?  He  knew,  he  knew:  no  doubt  they  were  also 
thinking,  like  the  landlady  and  her  beast  of  a 
brother,  that  he  was  mad,  mad,  bereft  of  his  senses. 
But  it  was  they  who  had  lost  their  senses:  they  had 
no  eyes,  not  to  see  the  slumbering  souls  that  filled 
the  house;  they  had  no  ears,  not  to  hear  the  plaint 
of  the  souls  last  night  ringing  through  the  universe. 
They,  they  were  mad:  they  knew  nothing  and  felt 
nothing;  they  lived  like  brute  beasts;  and  he  hated 
them  both:  that  big,  burly  officer  and  the  other, 
that  fine  gentleman,  with  his  smooth  face  and  his 
moustache  like  a  cat's  whiskers,  which  he  couldn't 
stand,  which  he  simply  could  not  stand.  Somehow, 
he  had  had  to  tell  them  about  the  poor  souls;  but, 
now  that  he  saw  that  they  were  mad,  he  would 
never  mention  the  souls  to  them  again:  otherwise 
they  would  be  sure  to  want  to  beat  him  too  and 
pull  him  about  and  tread  on  the  poor  souls,  as  those 
two  horrible  brutes  had  done. 

So  he  remained  sitting  quietly,  waiting  for  them 
to  go  and  leave  him  to  himself,  in  the  peaceful 
solitude  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  For  he  was 
tired  now;  and,  sitting  straight  up  in  his  chair,  he 
closed  his  eyes,  partly  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  his 
brothers'  faces.     Around  him  lay  the  souls,  count- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     37 

less  numbers  of  them,  but  they  were  still  and  silent, 
slumbering  around  him  like  children,  though  their 
faces  were  wrung  with  all  the  grief  and  pain  that 
they  had  been  made  to  suffer  the  night  before. 

Gerrit  and  Paul  had  stood  up,  were  pretending 
to  look  at  the  vases,  talking  in  whispers : 

11  He  is  pretty  calm,"  said  Gerrit. 

44  Yes,  but  what  he  said  was  utter  nonsense. " 

"  We  must  go  to  a  doctor." 

M  Yes,  we  must  go  to  Dr.  van  der  Ouwe  first. 
Perhaps  to  Dr.  Reeuws  afterwards,  or  any  other 
nerve-specialist  whom  Van  der  Ouwe  recommends." 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?  Is  he  absolutely 
mad?" 

44  Yes,  mad.  He  never  used  to  talk  in  that  in- 
coherent way.  Up  to  now,  he  was  only  queer, 
dreamy,  eccentric.    Now  he  is  absolutely  ..." 

44  Mad,"  Gerrit  completed,  in  a  low  voice. 

44  Look,  he's  shut  his  eyes  ..." 

44  He  seems  calm." 

44  Yes,  he's  calm  enough." 

44  Shall  we  go?" 

41  Yes,  let's  go." 

They  went  up  to  Ernst: 

44  Ernst  ..." 

44  Ernst!" 

He  slowly  raised  his  heavy  eyelids. 

44  We're  off,  Ernst,  old  chap,"  said  Gerrit. 

Ernst  nodded  his  head. 


38     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  We  shall  be  back  soon." 

But  Ernst  closed  his  eyes  again,  yearning  for 
them  to  go,  driving  them  out  of  the  room  with  his 
longing.  .    .    . 

They  went.  He  heard  them  shut  the  door  softly, 
carefully.  Then  he  nodded  his  head  with  satis- 
faction: they  were  not  so  bad,  they  had  not  waked 
the  souls.  .  .  .  He  heard  them  whispering  on  the 
landing,  with  those  two  beasts,  the  landlady  and 
her  brother.  He  got  up,  crept  to  the  door,  tried 
to  listen.  But  he  could  not  make  out  what  they 
said. 

Then  he  laughed  contemptuously,  because  he 
thought  them  stupid,  devoid  of  eyes,  ears,  heart  or 
feeling: 

"  Wretched  brutes,  infernal  brutes !  "  he  mut- 
tered fiercely,  clenching  his  fists. 

A  mortal  weariness  stole  over  him.  He  went  to 
his  bedroom,  let  down  the  blinds  and  got  into  bed, 
feeling  that  he  would  sleep. 

All  around  him  lay  the  souls:  the  whole  room 
was  full  of  them. 


CHAPTER  II 

Old  Mrs.  van  Lowe's  neighbours  thought  it  a 
funny  thing  that,  after  dinner  that  evening,  the 
whole  family  arrived,  one  after  the  other,  rang  the 
bell  and  went  in,  though  it  was  not  Sunday.  Except 
on  those  "  family-group  "  Sundays,  there  was  never 
much  of  a  run  on  Mrs.  van  Lowe's  door.  And  they 
wondered  what  could  be  the  matter;  and,  as  it  was 
very  warm,  an  August  day,  they  opened  all  the 
windows,  kept  looking  across  the  street  and  even 
sent  their  maids  to  enquire  of  Mrs.  van  Lowe's 
maids.  But  the  maids  did  not  know  anything:  they 
only  thought  it  must  be  something  to  do  with  the 
young  mevrouw,  the  one  in  Paris — Mrs.  Emilie,  as 
they  called  her — who  had  gone  off  with  her  brother. 

44  It's  very  queer  about  the  Van  Lowes,"  said 
the  neighbours,  looking  out  of  window  at  the  old 
lady's  front-door,  at  which  somebody  was  ringing 
again  for  the  hundredth  time. 

44  There  come  the  Van  Saetzemas." 

44  And  here  are  those  fat  Ruyvenaers." 

44  What's  up?" 

44  Yes,  what  can  be  up?  " 

44  The  servants  say  it's  something  to  do  with 
Emilie." 

39 


4o     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

44  A  nice  thing  for  the  Van  Ravens!  " 

44  They  say  that  Bertha  has  become  quite  childish, 
don't  they?" 

44 1  don't  know  about  that:  she  just  sits  staring  in 
front  of  her.  They  never  come  now :  they're  living 
at  Baarn." 

44  Here  are  the  Van  der  Welckes." 

44  Like  aunt,  like  niece." 

44  Now  they're  all  there." 

44  All?" 

44  Yes,  I've  seen  them  all.  Captain  van  Lowe 
and  his  wife,  Paul,  Dorine  and  Karel." 

44  And  Ernst?" 

44  He  hasn't  come  yet," 

44  But  then  he  doesn't  always  come." 

44 1  wonder  what's  up." 

44  Yes,  I  wonder." 

44  There  must  be  some  scandal  with  Emilie." 

44  And,  when  you  think  of  what  the  Van  Naghels 
used  to  be.   .    .    .   Such  big  people !  " 

44  And  now  ..." 

44  Absolute  nobodies.   ..." 

44  Oh,  I  think  they're  rather  nice  people!   .    .    ." 

44  Yes,  but  they're  all  a  bit  touched,  you  know." 

44  Well,  suppose  we  go  to  Scheveningen ?  .    .    ." 

44  Yes,  let's  go  to  Scheveningen.  We  may  hear 
there  what's  happened  ..." 

44  Yes  .    .    .  about  Emilie,  you  know.   .  ..    . " 

And  Mrs.  van  Lowe's  neighbours  went  off  to 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     41 

Scheveningen,   with   the   express   object  of  hearing 
what  had  happened  about  Emilie.   .    .    . 

Old  Mrs.  van  Lowe  was  sitting  in  the  con- 
servatory, with  the  windows  open,  and  crying  gently, 
like  one  who  was  too  old  to  cry  violently,  whatever 
the  sorrow  might  be.  Uncle  Herman,  Aunt  Lot, 
all  the  children  had  come  in  gradually,  their  faces 
blank  with  utter  dismay;  and  they  were  moving  like 
ghosts  about  the  large,  dark  rooms,  where  no  one 
had  thought  of  having  the  gas  lit. 

"  Herman !  "  the  old  lady  cried,  plaintively. 

Uncle  Ruyvenaer  and  Aunt  Lot  approached. 
Have  you  seen  him,  Herman?"  asked  the  old 
lady,  wringing  her  old,  knotted  hands. 

"  \o-o,  Marie.  But  I  ...  I  shall  go  to  him 
to-morrow    .    .    .    with  Dr.  van  der  Ouwe." 

M  And  who  is  with  him  now?  " 

"  A  male  nurse,  Mamma,"  said  Gerrit.  "  We've 
seen  to  everything.  He's  quite  calm,  Mamma  dear, 
he's  quite  calm.  It  won't  be  very  bad.  It's  only 
temporary:  it'll  pass,  the  doctor  said." 

Cateau's  bosom  suddenly  loomed  through  the 
open  doorway  of  the  conservatory: 

"  Oh,  Mam-ma,"  she  said,  "  how  sad  .  .  .  about 
Ernst !  Who  would  ever  have  im-a-gined  .  .  . 
that  Ernst  would  become   .    .    .   like  this!" 

And  she  bent  over  her  mother-in-law  and  gave  her 
a  formal  kiss,  like  the  kiss  of  a  stranger  paying  a 
visit  of  condolence. 


42     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"And  how  are  you,  Mamma?"  asked  Karel,  as 
though  there  were  nothing  the  matter.  "  I  hope 
you're  not  suffering  from  the  heat." 

The  old  woman  nodded  dully,  pressed  his  hand. 

"  All  that  I  ask,"  said  Adolphine,  addressing  her 
husband,  Paul,  Dorine  and  Adeline,  "  is  that  you 
will  not  talk  about  it.  Don't  talk  about  it  to  out- 
siders. The  less  it's  talked  about,  the  better 
pleased  I  shall  be.  .  .  .  We  have  that  Indian  lack 
of  reserve  in  our  family,  that  habit  of  at  once  going 
and  telling  everybody  everything.  ...  If  people 
ask,  we  can  say  that  Ernst  has  had  a  nervous  break- 
down; yes,  that's  it:  let's  arrange  to  say  that  Ernst 
has  had  a  nervous  break-down.   ..." 

She  asked  them  to  give  her  their  word;  and  they 
promised,  in  order  to  keep  her  quiet. 

"  You'll  see,"  she  said,  "  this  business  with  Ernst 
will  mean  that  Van  Saetzema  will  once  more  fail  to 
get  elected  to  the  town  council." 

Paul  looked  at  her  in  stupefaction,  failing  to  grasp 
the  logic  of  her  remark.     Then  he  said,  calmly: 

1  Yes,  you  see  funny  things  happen  sometimes." 

4  Yes,"  said  Adolphine,  nodding  her  head  to  show 
how  much  she  appreciated  the  fact  that  Paul  under- 
stood her.  "It's  horrid  for  me:  you'll  see,  Van 
Saetzema  won't  get  in.  ..." 

"  I  believe  that  Ernst  ...  is  the  sanest  of  the 
lot  of  us !  "  thought  Paul. 

And,  as  he  moved  to  a  seat,  he  first  looked  to 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     43 

make  sure  that  there  were  no  bits  of  fluff  on  the 
chair. 

But  Constance  had  come  in;  and,  when  the  old 
lady  saw  her,  she  half-rose,  threw  herself  into  her 
daughter's  arms  and  began  to  sob  more  violently 
than  she  had  done.  It  was  strange  how  she  had 
gradually  come  to  look  upon  Constance  once  more 
as  the  nearest  to  her  of  her  children,  this  daughter 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years  and  years,  until 
at  last  Constance  had  returned  to  Holland  and  the 
family.  As  a  mother,  she  had  never  had  a 
favourite;  yet  she  would  often,  for  months  at  a 
time,  feel  drawn  now  more  towards  the  one,  then 
again  towards  the  other.  She  was  growing  old,  she 
was  getting  the  broken  look  which  a  mother's  face 
begins  to  wear  as  she  sees  sorrow  coming  into  her 
children's  lives:  a  sorrow  which,  in  her  case,  arrived 
so  late  that  by  degrees  the  illusion  had  come  to  her 
that  there  would  never  be  any  sorrow.  The  sudden 
break-up  of  Bertha's  house — that  house  which  she 
was  so  fond  of  visiting,  because  she  found  in  it  the 
continuation  of  her  own  life,  the  reflection  of  her 
own  past  grandeur — had  fallen  on  her  as  a  painful 
blow:  Van  Naghel's  sudden  death;  the  sort  of 
apathy  into  which  Bertha  had  sunk;  the  divorce 
between  Van  Raven  and  Emilie  after  Emilie  had 
refused  to  come  back  from  abroad,  preferring  to 
stay  in  Paris  with  her  brother  Henri,  who  had  been 
sent  down  from  Leiden:  a  divorce  obtained  in  the 


44     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

face  of  all  the  persuasion  which  Uncle  van  Naghel, 
the  Queen's  Commissary  in  Overijssel,  had  brought 
to  bear  upon  them;  Louise  living  with  Otto  and 
Frances,  in  order  to  help  Frances,  who  was  always 
ailing,  with  the  children,  so  that  Bertha  was  living 
alone  with  Marianne  in  her  little  villa  at  Baarn, 
now  that  Frans  had  taken  his  degree  and  gone  to 
India,  while  Karel  and  Marietje  were  at  boarding- 
school.  The  big  household  had  broken  up,  in  a 
few  months,  in  a  few  days  almost;  and  the  old 
grandmother,  whose  dearest  illusion  it  had  always 
been  to  keep  everything  and  everybody  close  to- 
gether, had  been  seized  with  an  innocent  wonder 
that  things  could  happen,  so,  that  things  had  hap- 
pened so.  .  .  .  She  no  longer  went  about,  finding 
a  difficulty  in  walking;  and,  because  Bertha  had 
become  so  apathetic  and  had  also  ceased  to  go 
about,  she  had  as  it  were  lost  Bertha  and  all  who 
belonged  to  her.  It  had  produced  a  void  around  her 
which  nothing  was  able  to  fill,  even  though  she  saw 
Constance  every  day.  A  void,  because  with  none  of 
her  other  children  did  the  old  lady  find,  the  same 
atmosphere  of  rank  and  position  which  she  had 
loved  in  the  Van  Naghels'  ministerial  household. 
She  would  often  complain  now,  a  thing  which  she 
never  used  to  do:  she  would  complain  that  Karel 
and  Cateau  were  so  selfish,  so  stiff  and  Dutch,  that 
they  were  getting  worse  every  year;  she  would  com- 
plain  that   at   Gerrit's   the    children   were    always 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     45 

so  noisy,  that  Adeline  was  unable  to  manage  them, 
that  both  Gerrit  and  Adeline  were  much  too 
weak  to  bring  up  so  many  children — nine  of 
them — with  proper  strictness;  she  would  complain 
that  Adolphine  was  growing  more  and  more 
envious  and  discontented,  because  her  husband  did 
not  make  his  way,  because  Carolientje  was  not  mar- 
ried, because  the  three  boys  were  so  troublesome; 
she  would  complain  of  Dorine  and  Paul  and  had 
all  sorts  of  little  grievances  against  both  of  them. 
Then,  on  the  Sunday  evenings,  when  the  children 
and  grandchildren  came  to  her,  she  felt  the  void 
which  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  had  left  behind  them, 
missed  the  sound  of  a  few  aristocratic  names, 
missed  any  reference  to  the  Russian  minister  in  her 
children's  conversation;  and,  with  a  little  half- 
bitter  laugh,  she  would  say  to  the  Ruyvenaers  that 
amily  was  no  longer  what  it  had  been,  called  it 
a  grandeur  dcchue  and  took  a  melancholy  pleasure 
in  the  phrase,  which  she  would  repeat  again  and 
again,  as  though  finding  consolation  in  its  gentle 
irony.  And  Constance  had  become  the  child  towards 
whom  she  felt  most  drawn  in  these  dreary  days,  be- 
cause Constance  devoted  herself  regularly  to  her  old 
mother  and  also  because  she,  Mamma,  in  her  secret 
heart,  loved  to  talk  with  Constance  about  Rome, 
about  De  Staffelaer  even,  about  the  Pallavicinis,  the 
Odescalchis,  whom  Constance  had  known  in  the  old 
days;  because  Constance,  whatever  might  be  said 


46     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

against  her,  was  connected  with  the  best  Dutch 
families;  because  Constance  had  a  title;  because 
Addie  was  the  only  one  of  her  grandchildren  who 
bore  a  title,  good  family  though  the  Van  Naghels 
were.  Oh,  those  grandchildren,  whom  she  now  saw 
so  seldom!  And,  now  that  the  terrible  thing  had 
befallen  Ernst,  the  terrible  thing  which  the  children 
had  at  first  wished  to  conceal  from  her,  but 
which  she  had  guessed  nevertheless,  because  she 
had  so  long  feared  it,  feared  it  indeed  from  the  time 
when  Ernst  was  a  tiny  child — oh,  what  frightful 
convulsions  he  used  to  have  as  a  child! — now  that 
the  terrible  thing  had  befallen  Ernst,  it  was  Con- 
stance in  whose  arms  she  was  first  able  to  sob  out 
her  grief,  in  whose  arms  she  first  felt  how  sorely  she 
had  been  stricken  in  her  declining  days: 

"  Connie,"  she  cried,  her  voice  broken  with  sobs, 
"  Connie  darling,  it's  true !  .  .  .  Ernst  .  .  .  Ernst 
is  madl)} 

And  the  word  which  no  one  had  yet  uttered  to 
her,  though  she  had  guessed  what  they  meant,  rang 
shrill  through  the  fast-darkening  room,  in  which 
every  whisper  was  suddenly  hushed  in  terror  at  the 
shrill  sound  of  the  old  woman's  high-pitched  voice. 
Silence  fell  upon  everything;  and  the  word  sent  a 
shudder  through  the  room.  The  children  looked  at 
one  another,  because  Mamma  had  uttered  the  word 
which  none  of  them  had  spoken,  though  they  had 
thought    it    silently.     The    word    which    Mamma 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     47 

uttered  so  shrilly,  almost  screaming  it  at  Constance, 
in  the  intolerable  pain  of  her  sorrow,  struck  them 
all  with  a  sudden  dismay,  because,  coming  from 
Mamma's  lips,  it  sounded  like  an  open  acknowledg- 
ment of  what  they  all  knew  but  did  not  wish  to 
acknowledge  except  among  one  another,  in  great 
secrecy.  They  would  merely  say  that  Ernst  was 
suffering  from  a  nervous  break-down,  nothing  more. 
A  nervous  break-down  was  such  a  comprehensive 
term!  Anybody  could  go  to  a  home  for  nervous 
patients  for  a  rest-cure.  But  the  word  uttered  by 
Mamma  to  Constance  in  shrill  acknowledgment  of 
the  truth  had  cut  through  the  dim  room,  where 
no  one  had  even  thought  of  lighting  the  gas. 
Adolphine,  Cateau,  Karel,  Uncle  Ruyvenaer, 
Floortje  and  Dijkerhof  exchanged  sudden  glances, 
terrified,  struck  with  dismay,  because  they  would 
never  have  been  willing  to  utter  the  word  aloud,  in 
open  acknowledgment  of  the  truth. 

Aunt  Lot's  loud  "  Ah,  kassianl " '  now  came 
from  a  corner  of  the  dark  room;  and  Toetie  was  so 
much  upset  that  she  suddenly  burst  into  sobs.  That 
was  your  Indian  lack  of  self-restraint  again, 
thought  the  Van  Saetzemas  and  Cateau;  and  it  did 
not  seem  to  them  decent  to  let  yourself  go  like  that, 
it  made  them  feel  that  the  business  was  a  hopeless 
one.  But  the  door  opened  and  the  two  doctors 
entered,  groping  their  way  in  the  darkness:  the  old 

1  Malay:  "Poor  dear!" 


48     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

family-doctor,  a  retired  army-surgeon,  Van  der 
Ouwe;  and  Reeuws,  a  young  nerve-specialist.  At 
their  entrance,  Toetie,  abashed,  ceased  her  sobbing. 
The  doctors  had  come  from  the  Nieuwe  Uitleg, 
where  they  had  left  Ernst  reading  peacefully,  with 
the  male  nurse,  a  stolid,  powerful  fellow,  in  an 
adjoining  room.  And,  when  the  brothers  and  sisters 
crowded  round  the  two  doctors,  the  older  began, 
quietly : 

"  Our  poor  Ernst  can't  stay  where  he  is,  all  by 
himself.  We  must  see  and  get  him  to  Nunspeet, 
at  Dr.  van  der  Heuvel's:  that  will  do  him  good 
.  .  .  the  country,  change  of  environment,  nice, 
quiet  people,  who  will  look  after  him.  ..." 

"Nunspeet?"  asked  Adolphine.  "That's  not 
.  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  old  doctor,  decisively,  under- 
standing what  she  meant.     "  It's  not." 

And  he  did  not  speak  the  word,  left  it  to  be 
implied,  the  word  that  must  not  be  uttered,  the 
terrible  word  that  denoted  the  house  of  shame,  the 
family-disgrace. 

"  It's  a  nice,  pleasant  villa,  where  Dr.  van  der 
Heuvel  minds  a  few  nervous  patients,"  he  said, 
calmly  and  kindly,  casting  a  glance  round  at  the 
brothers  and  sisters;  and  his  grey  head  nodded 
reassuringly  to  all  of  them. 

They  admired  his  tact ;  and  they  the  more  readily 
condemned  Mamma's  shrill  word,  which  had  cut 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     49 

through  the  darkness  and  made  them  shudder,  they 
the  more  readily  condemned  Aunt  Lot's  exclamation 
and  Toetie's  outbreak  of  sobbing. 

And,  breathing  again,  they  lit  the  gas,  suddenly 
noticing  that  the  room  was  pitch-dark  now  that 
the  two  doctors  had  gone  to  Mamma  and  were 
telling  her  quietly  that  it  would  be  all  right  and 
that  Ernst  was  just  a  little  overstrained  from  being 
too  much  alone  and  poring  too  long  over  his  dusty 
books. 


CHAPTER  III 

Constance  went  to  the  Nieuwe  Uitleg  next  morn- 
ing; the  landlady,  shaking  her  head,  let  her  in;  Dr. 
van  der  Ouwe  met  her  in  the  passage : 

M  I  thank  you  for  coming,  mevrouw.  It  won't 
do  for  Ernst  to  remain  here  any  longer;  I  should 
like  to  take  him  down  to  Nunspeet,  with  one  of  you, 
as  soon  as  possible,  to-morrow.  But  it  won't  be  an 
easy  matter  .   .   .  poor  fellow !  " 

44  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Constance,  doubtfully. 

44  Then  I'll  leave  you  alone  with  him.  You  won't 
be  nervous?  No,  you're  not  nervous.  He's  quite 
quiet,  poor  fellow.  Don't  be  afraid:  I  shall  be 
near." 

Constance  went  upstairs,  with  her  heart  thumping 
in  her  breast.  She  tapped  softly  at  the  door  and 
received  no  answer : 

44  Ernst!  "  she  called;  and  her  voice  was  not  very 
steady.    44  Ernst  ..." 

But  there  was  no  reply. 

She  slowly  opened  the  door.  The  door-handle 
grated  into  her  very  soul;  and  before  entering  she 
asked  once  more : 

44  Ernst.  .   .   .  May  I  come  in?" 

He  still  did  not  answer  and  she  walked  into  the 

50 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     51 

room.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  smile  at  once, 
to  come  up  to  him  with  a  smile,  so  that  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  might  put  her  poor  brother 
at  his  ease.  And  so  she  smiled  as  she  entered, 
looking  for  him  with  kindly  eyes,  as  though  there 
were  nothing  at  all  out  of  the  common. 

But  her  smile  seemed  to  freeze  on  her  lips  when 
she  saw  him  sitting  huddled  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
in  a  flannel  shirt  and  an  old  pair  of  trousers,  with 
his  long  hair  hanging  unkempt.  Nevertheless  she 
controlled  herself  and  said,  in  as  natural  a  tone 
as  she  could  command : 

11  Good-morning,  Ernst.  I've  come  to  see  how 
you  are.n 

He  looked  at  her  suspiciously  from  his  corner  and 
asked: 

"Why?" 

44  Because  I  heard  that  you  were  not  well.  So 
I  thought  I  would  see  how  you  were  getting 
on. 

11  I'm  not  ill,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Why  are  you  sitting  in  that  corner,  Ernst? 
Are  you  comfortable  there?" 

44  Ssh!  "  he  said.  44  They're  asleep.  Don't  speak 
too  loud." 

44  No.  But  I  may  talk  quietly,  mayn't  I,  Ernst? 
.  .  .  Can't  you  get  up  from  your  chair?  For 
there's  no  room  there  to  sit  beside  you.  Come, 
dear,  won't  you  get  up?  " 


52     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And  she  smiled  and  held  out  both  her  hands  to 
him. 

He  smiled  back  and  said : 

"Ssh!    Don't  wake  them." 

"  No,  no.    But  do  get  up." 

He  gave  way  at  last  and,  grasping  her  hands 
warily,  allowed  her  to  pull  him  up,  out  of  his  corner, 
and  once  more  said,  earnestly: 

14  You  must  promise  me  not  to  wake  them.  All 
my  visitors  wake  them,  the  brutes!  The  doctor 
woke  them  too." 

"  No,  Ernst,  we'll  let  them  sleep.  There,  it's 
nice  of  you  to  have  got  up.  Shall  we  sit  down 
here?" 

"Yes.  Why  have  you  come?  You  never  come 
to  see  me.  ..." 

There  was  in  his  words  an  unconscious  reproach 
that  startled  her.  It  was  quite  true :  she  never  came 
to  see  him.  Since  that  first  time,  eighteen  months 
ago,  when  he  had  asked  her  to  his  rooms  on  her 
return  to  Holland,  the  day  when  she  had  lunched 
here  with  him,  when  he  had  toasted  her  with  two 
fingers  of  champagne  out  of  a  quaint  old  glass,  she 
had  never  once  been  back.  She  reproached  herself 
for  it  now:  she,  who  did  feel  all  that  affection  for 
her  family,  why  had  she  left  that  brother  to  himself, 
as  all  the  others  did,  just  because  he  was  queer? 
If  she  had  overcome  that  vague  feeling  of  distaste, 
almost   of   repugnance;   if   she   had   felt   for   him 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      53 

always  as  she  suddenly  felt  for  him  now,  perhaps 
he  would  not  have  been  so  self-centred,  perhaps  he 
would  have  retained  his  sanity. 

44  No,  Ernst,"  she  confessed,  "  I  never  came  to 
see  you.    It  wasn't  nice  of  me,  was  it?  " 

44  No,  it  wasn't  nice  of  you,"  he  said.  44  For  I'm 
very  fond  of  you,  Constance." 

Her  heart  began  to  fail  her.  Her  breath  came 
in  gasps;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  put  her 
arm  over  his  shoulder  and,  without  restraining  her 
emotion,  she  cried : 

"  Did  we  all  leave  you  so  much  alone,  Ernst?  " 

44  No,"  he  said,  quietly,  44 1  am  never  alone. 
They  are  all  of  them  around  me,  always.  There 
are  some  of  every  century.  Sometimes  they  are 
magnificently  dressed  and  sing  with  exquisite  voices. 
But  latterly,"  mournfully  shaking  his  head,  44  lat- 
terly they  have  not  been  like  that.  They  are  all 
grey,  like  ghosts;  they  no  longer  sing  their  beautiful 
tunes;  they  weep  and  wail  and  gnash  their  teeth. 
They  used  to  come  out  into  the  middle  of  the  room 
.  .  .  and  laugh  and  sing  and  glitter.  But  now,  oh, 
Constance,  I  don't  know  what  they  suffer,  but  they 
suffer  something  terrible  ...  a  purgatory !  They 
crowd  round  me,  they  suffocate  me,  till  I  can't  draw 
my  breath.  .  .  .  Hush,  there  they  are,  waking 
again !   .    .    . " 

44  No,  Ernst,  no,  Ernst,  they're  asleep !  " 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  knowing  laugh: 


54     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

11  Yes,"  he  whispered,  "  you  are  kind,  you  love 
them,  you  are  sorry  for  them  .  .  .  you  let  them 
sleep  .   .   .  you  don't  wake  them.  ..,..>" 

And  they  sat  quietly  together  for  a  moment, 
without  speaking,  she  with  her  arm  round  his 
shoulder. 

"  What  a  lot  of  pretty  things  you  have,  Ernst!  " 
she  said,  looking  round  the  room. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  collected  them  .  .  .  gradu- 
ally, very  gradually.  There  was  one  in  every 
piece." 

"  Ernst,"  she  said,  gently,  "  perhaps  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  if  you  went  to  the  country  this 
summer." 

At  once  he  seemed  to  stiffen  and  shrink  under  her 
touch,  as  though  all  his  limbs  were  becoming  tense 
and  stark : 

"  I  won't  leave  here,"  he  said. 

"  Ernst,  it  would  be  so  good  for  you.  Do  you 
know  Nunspeet?  " 

She  felt  him  go  rigid;  and  he  looked  at  her 
angrily  and  harshly: 

The  doctor  wants  to  get  me  to  Nunspeet,"  he 
answered,  craftily.  He  laughed  scornfully:  "  I  know 
all  about  it.  You  people  think  I'm  mad.  But  I'm 
not  mad,"  he  went  on,  haughtily.  "  You  people  are 
stupid:  stupid  and  mad  is  what  you  are.  You  see 
nothing  and  hear  nothing,  you  with  your  dull  brute 
senses;  and  then  you  just  think,  because  some  one 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     55 

else  sees  and  hears  and  feels,  that  he's  mad  .  .  . 
whereas  it's  you  yourselves  who  are  mad.  I  shall 
stay  here;  I  won't  go  to  Nunspeet." 

But  suddenly  he  grew  alarmed  and  asked: 

44  I  say,  Constance,  you  won't  force  me,  surely? 
You  won't  beat  me?  That  beastly  cad  down  below, 
that  fellow,  that  cad:  he  hit  me  .  .  .  and  woke 
them  .  .  .  and  trod  on  them!  He  stood  treading 
on  them,  the  great  fool,  the  blockhead!  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  Constance,  you  will  leave  me  here,  won't 
you?" 

44  No,  Ernst,  no  one  wants  to  force  you.  But  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  went  to  Nunspeet." 

44  But  why?     I'm  all  right  here." 

44  You  would  be  among  kind  people  .  .  .  who 
will  be  fond  of  you." 

44  No  one  has  ever  been  fond  of  me,"  he 
said. 

44  Ernst!  "  she  cried,  with  a  sob. 

44  No  one  has  ever  been  fond  of  me,"  he  repeated, 
bluntly.  4i  Not  Mamma  .  .  .  nor  any  of  you  .  .  . 
not  one.  If  I  had  not  had  all  of  them  ...  oh,  if 
I  had  not  had  all  of  them!  My  darlings,  my 
darlings!  Oh,  what  can  be  the  matter  with  them? 
Now  they're  waking  up !  Now  they're  awake !  Oh, 
listen  to  them  moaning!  Oh  dear,  listen  to  them 
screaming!  They're  screaming,  they're  yelling! 
...  Is  it  purgatory?  Oh,  dear,  how  they're 
crowding  round  me!     They're  stifling  me,  they're 


5  6     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

stifling  me!  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  it's  more  than  I  can 
bear!" 

He  rushed  to  the  open  window;  and  she  was 
afraid  that  he  wanted  to  throw  himself  out,  so  that 
she  caught  him  round  the  body  with  both  her  arms. 
The  old  doctor  came  in.    He  shut  the  window. 

"  I  can  do  nothing/'  she  murmured  to  the  old 
man,  in  despair. 

"  Yes,  you  can,"  said  the  doctor,  calmly.  "  Yes, 
you  can,  mevrouw." 

"'•You' are  all  of  you  my  enemies,"  said  Ernst. 
u  My  enemies  and  theirs." 

And  he  went  and  sat  in  his  corner,  huddled  up, 
with  his  arms  round  his  knees. 

"  Go  away,"  he  said,  addressing  both  of  them. 

"  I'm  going,  Ernst,"  said  the  old  doctor.  u  But 
Constance  may  as  well  stay." 

He  sometimes  called  her  by  her  Christian  name, 
the  old  doctor  who  had  brought  them  into  the  world 
in  India;  and  to  Constance  it  was  touching,  to  hear 
that  name  from  under  his  grey  moustache;  it  called 
up  those  old,  old  days. 

"  Constance  can  stay?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Ernst. 

The  doctor  left  them  alone:  the  nurse  would  be 
on  his  guard. 

"  Ernst,"  said  Constance,  "  suppose  we  went  to- 
gether .   .    .  to  Nunspeet?" 

"Why?     Why?  "  he  asked,  vehemently.     "I'm 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     57 

all  right  here.  .  .  .  And  we  can't  take  them  with 
us  there,"  he  whispered,  more  gently.  "  Ssh ! 
You're  waking  them." 

44  It  will  be  quieter  for  them,  perhaps,  if  you 
leave  them  here,  dear,"  she  said,  kneeling  on  the 
floor  beside  him,  feeling  for  his  hand,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

44  No,  no  .  .  .  that  woman's  brother  down  there 
.    .    .   that  cad   ..." 

44  But,  Ernst,"  she  said,  more  firmly,  with  her 
eyes  on  his,  44  dear  Ernst,  do  let  me  tell  you :  they 
don't  exist.  They  exist  only  in  your  imagination. 
You  must  really  get  rid  of  the  idea:  then  you  will 
be  well  again,  quite  well.  .  .  .  Ernst,  dear  Ernst, 
they  don't  exist.  Do  look  round  you:  there's  no- 
thing to  see  but  the  room,  your  furniture,  your 
books,  your  vases.  There's  nothing  else,  except  our 
two  selves.  .  .  .  Oh,  Ernst,  do  try  to  see  it:  there's 
nothing.  .  .  .  That  you  feel  as  if  you  were  suf- 
focating comes  from  always  being  so  much  alone, 
never  going  out,  never  walking.  At  Nunspeet,  we 
will  walk  ...  on  the  heath,  over  the  dunes  .  .  . 
and  then  you  will  get  quite  well  again,  Ernst.  .  .  . 
For,  honestly,  you  are  ill.  .  .  .  There's  nothing 
here,  nothing.  Look  for  yourself:  there's  only  you 
and  I  .    .    .  and  your  furniture  and  books.   ..." 

He  quietly  let  her  talk;  an  ironical  smile  curled 
round  his  lips;  and  at  last  he  gave  her  a  glance  of 
pitying  contempt,  gave  a  little  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 


58     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Then  he  softly  stroked  her  hand,  patted  it  gently, 
in  a  fatherly  manner : 

"  You  are  kind  and  nice,  Constance,  but,"  shaking 
his  head,  "  you  have  no  sense !  I  believe  you  mean 
what  you  say,  but  that's  just  it:  you're  narrow, 
you're  limited.  You  don't  see,  you  don't  hear," 
putting  his  hand  to  his  eyes  and  ears,  "  what  I  see, 
what  I  hear  with  my  eyes  and  my  ears.  ..." 

"  But,  Ernst,  you  must  surely  understand  that 
those  are  all  illusions.  The  doctor  says  that  they 
are  hallucinations." 

He  continued  to  smile,  looked  at  her  with  his  con- 
temptuous pity,  looked  hard  out  of  his  black  Van 
Lowe  eyes. 

"  They  are  hallucinations,  Ernst." 

" And  you?" 

"  No,  I'm  not." 

"And  the  room,  the  books,  the  vases?  .    .   ." 

"  No,  they  are  not.  They  are  all  around  you, 
they  exist." 

"Well  .  .  .  and  why  not  all  of  them,  the 
souls?" 

"They  don't  exist,  Ernst.  They  are  hallucina- 
tions." 

He  just  closed  his  eyelids,  smiled,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  to  convey  that  he  was  utterly  at  a  loss 
to  understand  such  exceedingly  limited  perceptions. 
Then  he  said,  gently  and  kindly: 

"No,  Constance  dear,  you're  not  clever  .  ..   .if 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     59 

you  mean  all  you  say.  I  believe  you  do  mean  it, 
but  that's  just  it:  you  live  like  a  blind  person;  you 
don't  see,  you  don't  hear.  That's  the  way  you  all 
of  you  live  and  exist,  in  a  dream,  with  closed  eyes 
and  deaf  ears.  You  none  of  you  see,  hear  or  under- 
stand anything.  You  know  nothing.  You  are  as 
unfeeling  as  stones.  You  can't  help  it,  Constance, 
but  it's  a  pity,  for  you  are  so  nice.  There  might 
have  been  something  to  be  made  of  you,  if  you  had 
learnt  to  see  and  hear  and  feel.  It's  too  late  now, 
Constance.  You  are  stupid  now,  like  all  the  rest; 
but  I'm  sorry,  for  you  are  very  nice.  Your  hand 
is  soft,  your  voice  is  soft;  and  you  did  your  best  not 
to  tread  on  my  poor  darlings  .  .  .  and  not  to  drag 
them  away  on  their  chains,  which  are  riveted  so 
fast  to  my  heart  that  they  hurt  me  sometimes, 
here!" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  heart.  A  weariness  came 
over  her  brain,  as  though  she  were  exhausting  her- 
self in  the  effort  to  speak  and  to  give  understanding 
to  an  intelligence  and  a  soul  which  remained  very 
far  away,  miles  away,  and  which  her  words  could 
only  reach  through  a  dense  cloud  of  darkness.  And 
suddenly  that  sense  of  weariness  and  impotence  be- 
came crueller  and  harder  within  her:  it  was  as 
though  she  were  talking  to  a  stone,  to  a  wall;  she 
felt  her  own  words  beating  back  against  her  fore- 
head like  tennis-balls  striking  the  wall. 

44  But,  Ernst,"  she  tried  once  more,  44  won't  you 


60     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

come  to  Nunspeet  with  me  ...  to  please  me,  to 
walk  on  the  heath  with  me?  You  would  be  giving 
me  such  immense  pleasure.  It  would  be  good  for 
me.  .    .    ." 

"  And  all  of  them,  here,  around  me?  .    .    . " 

He  pointed  round  the  room,  cautiously. 

"  We  will  leave  them  to  sleep  here." 

"And  that  cad,  downstairs?   .    .    ." 

14  He  sha'n't  interfere  with  them,  I  promise 
you.  .  .  .  We'll  lock  up  the  room,  Ernst,  and  they 
shall  sleep  peacefully." 

She  humoured  him,  not  knowing  if  she  was  doing 
right,  but  feeling  too  tired  to  convince  him. 

"You  promise ?"  he  asked,  suddenly.  "You 
promise  that  they  shall  sleep  peacefully?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  the  cad  downstairs  won't  wake  them  and 
tread  on  them?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  You  promise  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

"We'll  lock  up  the  room  very  quietly?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  nobody  at  all  will  come  in?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  promise  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Will  you  swear  it?" 

44  Yes,  Ernst." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     61 

44  All  right,  then." 

"Will  you  come?"  she  cried,  rejoicing  and 
unable  to  believe  her  ears. 

11  Yes.  Because  you  would  so  much  like  to  go 
for  walks  ...  on  the  heath.    You're  nice.  ..." 

He  spoke  gently,  pityingly;  and  his  contempt  was 
not  as  great  as  it  had  been,  for  he  looked  upon  her 
as  a  nice  but  stupid  child  that  needed  his  help  and 
his  protection. 

She  smiled  at  him  in  return,  stood  up  where  she 
had  been  kneeling  beside  him,  put  out  her  hands  to 
him,  inviting  him  to  get  up  from  his  corner  also. 
He  let  her  pull  him  up;  he  was  a  heavy  weight: 
she  drew  him  out  of  his  corner  like  a  lump  of  lead. 

44  Then  we  start  to-morrow,  Ernst?  " 

He  nodded  yes,  good-naturedly:  she  was  very  nice 
.  .  .  and  she  was  longing  for  those  walks  .  .  . 
and  she  was  so  weak,  so  stupid,  she  knew  nothing, 
saw,  heard  and  felt  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  He 
must  help  her  and  guide  her  and  support  her. 

44  And  shall  we  pack  a  trunk  now,  while  I  am 
here?" 

He  did  not  understand  that  a  trunk  was  necessary : 
he  looked  at  her  blankly;  but  he  wanted  to  please 
her  and  said: 

44  All  right.     But  don't  make  a  noise." 

The  doctor  returned. 

44  He's  coming,"  she  whispered.  44  We're  going 
to  pack  his  trunk." 


62     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

The  doctor  pressed  her  hand.  Ernst  looked 
down  upon  them  both,  smiling,  as  upon  poor,  un- 
fortunate people  who  cannot  help  being  so  stupid 
...  so  slow  of  understanding  ...  so  limited  in 
their  knowledge  ...  so  dull  of  perception.  .    .    . 

And,  while  Constance  and  the  doctor  opened  the 
clothes-press  in  his  bedroom,  he  warned  them, 
quietly,  but  with  dignity: 

"  Ssh !  Be  careful,  you  know.  Don't  let  the  door 
of  the  wardrobe  creak.    Don't  wake  them !  .    .    : " 


CHAPTER  IV 

It  was  a  sultry  summer  morning  and  old  Mrs.  van 
Lowe  sat  at  the  conservatory-window,  crying  very 
quietly.  She  had  been  crying  incessantly  now  for 
two  long  days.  After  her  first  sob  in  Constance' 
arms,  she  had  sobbed  no  more;  but  since  then  her 
tears  had  flowed  continually,  salt,  stinging  tears  that 
burned  her  wrinkled  cheeks.  She  sat  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap;  and  from  time  to  time  she  nodded 
her  head  up  and  down,  while  she  stared  at  the  leafy 
garden,  over  which  the  stormy  sky  hung  dark  and 
heavy  as  lead.  Now  and  then  she  cleared  her 
throat,  now  and  then  heaved  a  deep  sigh;  and  her 
handkerchief  was  soaked  with  the  tears  that  kept 
on  flowing,  quietly,  out  of  her  smarting  eyes.  Con- 
stant fretting  had  drawn  down  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  into  two  long,  sad  wrinkles.  Oh  yes,  it  was 
very  hard !  Trouble  .  .  .  always  trouble  .  .  .  her 
life  had  been  full  of  trouble:  trouble  when  Louis 
and  Gertrude  had  died  at  Buitenzorg,  poor  children; 
what  had  they  not  suffered  from  fever  and  cholera  ? 
Money  troubles :  an  expensive  household  to  be  kept 
up  on  limited  means.  Trouble  again,  terrible 
trouble  with  dear  Constance;  and  the  heavy  trouble 
of  her  husband's  illness  and  death:  he  had  never 

63 


64     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

recovered  from  Constance*  disgrace;  more  trouble 
over  Van  Naghel's  death,  the  great  change  in 
Bertha  and  the  break-up  of  the  whole  household; 
and  now  there  was  this  last  sore  trouble  with  her 
son,  her  poor  son,  who  had  gone  mad!  Oh,  if  it 
had  only  happened  a  little  earlier,  when  she  was 
younger,  she  could  have  borne  it,  as  she  had  borne 
the  rest,  could  have  accepted  it  as  her  natural  share, 
a  mother's  share  of  trouble.  But  she  was  so  old 
now;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  supreme  trouble 
was  drawing  near,  a  trouble  which  was  coming  very 
late  in  her  life,  too  late  for  her  to  bear  it  with 
strength  and  patience,  now  that  she  was  growing 
older  and  feebler  daily;  and  her  only  wish  had  been 
to  see  her  big  family  happy  together,  that  great 
family  of  children,  grandchildren  and  great-grand- 
children, amongst  which  she  had  always  rejoiced  to 
live,  thankful  as  she  had  been  for  that  great  bless- 
ing. It  was  as  though  a  presentiment  were  coming 
to  her  from  very  far,  from  very  far  out  of  those 
heavy,  lowering  skies,  a  presentiment  which  her 
nerves,  sharpened  by  age,  suddenly  not  only  felt  but 
saw  coming  like  a  menace,  as  old  people  will  sud- 
denly see  the  truth  very  clearly,  the  future :  a  waning 
lamp  which  suddenly  flickers  up  brightly,  before 
dying  out  in  darkness;  a  bright  flicker  which  sud- 
denly reveals  the  shadows  in  the  room  and  in  which 
the  portraits  grin,  with  faces  that  seem  to  speak 
...  .    .  before  the  lamp  dies  out,  before  everything 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     65 

is  swallowed  up  in  the  black  darkness!  Oh,  the 
awful  presentiment  which  suddenly  approached  like 
a  spectre  out  of  the  leaden  clouds,  that  filled  the 
whole  vista  before  her  eyes  with  grey  terrors;  the 
presentiment  that  this  trouble,  the  greatest  of  all, 
was  going  to  strike  her  most,  now,  in  her  old,  old 
age,  when  she  no  longer  had  the  strength  to  endure 
it,  when  she  would  sink  under  the  weight  of  it !  .  .  . 
O  God,  why  should  it  now,  why  now,  fall  with 
such  pitiless,  crushing  weight?  Why  now?  Was  it 
not  enough  that  one  of  her  children  .  .  .  had  gone 
mad,  surely  the  most  terrible  thing  that  can  happen? 
Was  not  that  enough?  What  more  could  be 
threatening,  looming  before  her,  now  that  she  was 
growing  so  feeble?  See,  did  not  her  old  hands 
tremble  at  the  mere  thought,  was  not  her  whole 
helpless  body  shaking,  were  not  the  tears  flowing 
until  they  smarted  in  the  furrows  of  her  wrinkles 
and  until  her  handkerchief  was  just  a  wet  rag? 
What  more  could  there  be  coming? 

"  O  God,  no  more,  no  more!  "  she  prayed,  auto- 
matically, believing,  in  her  feeble  despair,  in  the 
great,  infinite  Omnipotence  which  is  so  very,  very 
far  removed  from  us  .  .  .  and  which  she  had 
always  worshipped  decently,  once  a  week,  in  church 
.  .  .  formerly  .  .  .  when  she  still  went  out.  "  O 
God,  no  more,  no  more !  " 

It  was  greater,  the  infinite  Omnipotence,  than 
what  they  worshipped  in  church;  it  filled  everything 


66     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

far  and  wide,  to  the  utmost  limits  of  her  thought; 
and  it  terrified  and  dismayed  her:  she  saw  it 
threatening  from  afar;  and  why,  why  now?  Oh, 
why  had  it  not  all  come  earlier,  when  she  would  have 
had  more  fortitude,  when  she  would  have  borne 
everything  as  her  natural  share,  a  mother's  share,  of 
trouble?  .  .  .  She  would  have  been  so  glad  just 
now  to  grow  old  peacefully,  amongst  her  wide  circle 
of  children,  grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren. 
But,  alas,  there  was  so  much  to  bear  and  .  .  .  per- 
haps there  was  still  more  coming! 

"O  God,  no  more,  no  more!"  she  implored: 
was  it  not  enough  that  one  of  her  children  .  .  .  had 
gone  mad,  surely  the  most  terrible  thing  that  can 
happen? 

She  moaned  in  spirit,  then  felt  a  little  eased  as 
the  rain  began  to  patter  heavily  on  the  expectant 
leaves  and  the  lightning  flashed  and  the  thunder 
rolled  and  the  sky  was  rent  asunder.  But  the  tears 
kept  flowing  in  spite  of  her  relief  that  the  rain  had 
come  at  last;  and,  because  of  the  thunder  which 
filled  her  fast-aging  ears,  she  did  not  hear  the  door 
open  softly,  did  not  hear  some  one  come  through 
the  drawing-room  and  approach  the  conservatory, 
did  not  at  once  see  the  slender  little  figure  that 
stood  quietly  before  her,  solicitous  not  to  intrude 
upon  the  grief  of  the  weeping  old  woman. 

"  Granny,"  the  younger  woman  said,  gently. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  in  surprise,  blinked  her 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     67 

eyes,  tried  to  see  through  the  flowing  tears,  did  not 
recognize  the  one  who  called  her  granny: 

11  Eh?  "  she  said,  plaintively.     V  Who  is  it?  " 

And  the  girl  did  not  answer  at  once,  because  it 
had  given  her  a  shock  to  see  those  silent  tears 
flowing  down  the  cheeks  of  that  lonely  old  woman. 
She  remained  standing  quietly,  a  pretty,  almost 
fragile  little  figure,  like  a  Dresden-china  doll,  but  a 
very  up-to-date  doll,  like  a  sketch  by  one  of  the 
ultra-modern  French  draughtsmen,  with  the  pointed 
little  face  below  the  elaborately-waved  hair  under 
the  very  large  hat,  a  hat  which,  in  the  shape  of  its 
crown  and  the  sweep  of  its  feathers  represented  the 
very  latest  extreme  of  fashion  and  consequently 
attracted  immediate  attention  in  Holland,  in  these 
dignified  rooms,  while  the  light  tailor-made  costume 
looked  too  dressy  for  a  summer  morning  at  the 
Hague  and  a  touch  in  every  accessory — the  sun- 
shade, the  tulle  boa — proclaimed  that  the  young 
woman  was  no  longer  of  the  Hague  and  of  Holland, 
short  though  the  time  was  since  she  had  run 
away. 

The  old  woman,  still  sensitive  in  all  social  matters, 
remained  looking  at  Emilie  a  little  suspiciously, 
failing  to  recognize  her  and  at  once  noticing,  just 
by  those  touches — the  large  hat,  the  tulle  boa — the 
exaggeration  that  displeased  her. 

"  But  who  is  it?"  she  repeated,  wiping  her  eyes 
to  see  better. 


6S     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And  now  the  pretty  little  doll  knelt  down  beside 
her  and  said: 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Granny?  It's  I  .  .  . 
Emilie." 

u  Oh,  my  child !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  brighten- 
ing up,  glad,  delighted.  "  Is  it  you,  Emilietje? 
And  Granny  who  didn't  know  you  again !  .  .  .  But 
then  you've  got  such  a  big  hat  on,  child.  And 
Eduard:  how  is  he  and  where  is  he?  " 

"But,  Granny!   ..." 

Under  the  arm  which  she  had  at  once  put  round 
Emilie,  the  old  woman  felt  a  shudder  pass  through 
the  dainty  little  doll,  who  had  knelt  down  beside 
her  so  impulsively  and  affectionately;  but  she  did 
not  understand: 

"Well,  where  is  Eduard?" 

"  Why,  Granny,"  cried  Emilie,  "  you  know  that 
we're  divorced!  " 

The  old  woman  now  shuddered  in  her  turn  and 
closed  her  eyes  and  sat  rigid.  What  was  this? 
Was  she  becoming  old,  like  her  old  sisters  Christine 
and  Dorine,  who  always  muddled  up  all  the  children, 
who  never  knew  anything  correctly  about  their  big 
family?  What  was  this?  Was  she  getting  con- 
fused? And  was  this  the  first  time  that  she  had 
utterly  forgotten  things  ...  or  had  it  happened 
before,  that  she  had  doted  like  an  old,  old  woman? 

She  opened  her  eyes  sadly  and  the  tears  ran  down 
her  cheeks: 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     69 

"  Ah,  Emilietje,  my  child,  my  child  .  .  .  don't  be 
cross  with  Granny!  She's  growing  old,  dear.  She 
had  forgotten  it  for  a  moment.  Yes,  yes,  she  had 
forgotten  all  about  it.  .  .  .  Of  course,  child,  you 
got  a  divorce.  Oh,  it's  very  sad!  You  oughtn't 
to  have  done  it  so  soon,  you  should  have  gone  on 
being  patient.  You  see,  child,  a  divorce  in  a  family 
is  always  a  very  sad  thing.  You  know,  there  was 
Aunt  Constance.  .  .  .  Well,  she  had  had  a  lot  of 
trouble.  You  had  plenty  of  trouble  too.  He  used 
to  strike  you:  yes,  Granny  knows.  But  you  ought 
not  to  have  let  the  world  know  about  it.  You  were 
quite  right  not  to  let  him  strike  you.  But  you 
should  have  shown  him,  by  remaining  gentle  and 
dignified,  that  he  was  doing  wrong.  .  .  .  No  man 
strikes  a  woman,  my  child,  if  she  preserves  her 
dignity.  But  you  used  to  lose  your  temper,  child, 
and  stamp  your  foot  and  call  him  names  and  invite 
scenes.  Yes,  yes,  Granny  knows  all  about  it,  Granny 
remembers  everything.  Mamma  used  to  say  it  was 
all  right,  but  Granny  knew,  Granny  saw  that  it  was 
far  from  right.  ...  If  you  had  not  lost  your  dig- 
nity, child,  he  would  never  have  dared  to  strike  you. 
And  who  knows:  you  might  gradually  have  made 
him  gentler,  have  made  him  respect  you  .  .  .  and 
you  might  still  have  had  a  very  tolerable  life.  You 
see,  dear,  there's  always  something,  in  marriage. 
It's  not  as  young  girls  imagine,  when  they  are  in 
love.    There  are  always  difficulties :  you  have  to  get 


7o     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

used  to  each  other,  to  fall  into  each  other's  ways. 
Do  you  think  that  Grandmamma  never  had  any 
differences  with  Grandpapa?  Oh,  there  were  ever 
so  many  .  .  .  and  later  on  even,  after  years  of 
marriage!  How  often  didn't  Grandmamma  and 
Grandpapa  differ  about  poor  Aunt  Constance !  .  .  . 
And  Mamma  and  Papa:  do  you  think  they  always 
agreed?  .  .  .  Temper,  Emilie,  is  a  thing  we  all 
have  in  our  family,  but  one  has  to  keep  it  under. 
A  woman  must  preserve  her  dignity  towards  her 
husband.  What  a  pity,  what  a  pity  it  was!  .  .  . 
Well,  child,  and  where  are  you  living  now?  Not 
with  Mamma  at  Baarn,  I  know." 

"  I'm  living  in  Paris,  Granny,  with  Henri." 
"What  do  you  say?  In  Paris?  Are  you  living 
in  Paris?  With  Henri?  Well,  you  see,  Henri 
too — yes,  Granny  isn't  quite  in  her  dotage  yet — 
leaving  Leiden  like  that!  For  shame!  Why  not 
have  finished  his  college  course  and  gone  to  India? 
.  .  .  And  what  do  you  do  there,  in  Paris?  It's 
very  nice,  for  the  two  of  you  to  be  together;  but 
it's  not  natural,  Emilietje.  Yes,  I  remember  now: 
they  told  me  you  were  living  in  Paris.  I  had  heard 
it  before.  But  that's  no  sort  of  life :  to  go  running 
through  the  bit  of  money  which  your  poor  father 
left  you,  in  Paris!  What  will  people  say!  For 
shame !  .  .  .  No,  Grandmamma  isn't  pleased  with 
you.  Instead  of  remaining  quietly  with  your  hus- 
band .    .  ...  instead  of  Henri's  quietly  finishing  his 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     71 

time  at  the  university!    What  does  it  all  mean,  what 
you  and  he  have  done?  " 

The  old  woman  rejected  Emilie's  caresses: 
"  No,  child,  don't  kiss  me;  Granny  is  vexed;  she 
doesn't  want  to  be  kissed.  .  .  .  The  family  isn't 
what  it  was.  It  is  a  grandeur  dechue,  child,  a 
regular  grandeur  dechue.  The  Van  Lowes  were 
something  once.  There  was  never  much  money,  but 
we  didn't  care  about  money  and  we  always  man- 
aged. But  the  family  used  to  count  ...  in  India, 
at  the  Hague.  Which  of  you  will  ever  have  a 
career  like  your  Grandpapa's,  like  your  Papa's? 
No,  we  shall  never  see  another  governor-general  in 
the  family,  nor  yet  a  cabinet-minister.  It's  a 
grandeur  dechue,  a  grandeur  dechue.  .  .  .  Ah, 
child,  Granny  has  too  much  trouble  to  bear,  too 
much  trouble  in  her  old  age!  Your  Papa's  death 
was  a  great  blow  to  Granny;  Mamma  has  changed 
so  much  since,  changed  so  much.  And  Granny 
never  sees  Mamma  now,  never.  Otto  and  Frances, 
once  in  a  way,  and  dear  Louise;  but  the  rest  of  you 
are  all  scattered,  you  are  all  independent  of  one 
another.  Oh,  it  is  so  nice  to  keep  together,  one 
big  family  together!  Why  need  Mamma  have  gone 
to  Baarn?  There's  nothing  but  rich  tradespeople 
there,  not  our  class  at  all.  .  .  .  And  now — have 
you  heard,  dear? — poor  Uncle  Ernst  .  .  .  Yes, 
child  .  .  .  it's  quite  true:  isn't  it  sad,  poor  fellow? 
And  hasn't  Granny  really  too  much  to  bear  in  her 


72     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

old  age?  .  .  .  Dear  Aunt  Constance  is  taking  him 
to  Nunspeet  to-day:  ah,  where  should  we  have  been 
without  Aunt  Constance?  .  .  .  Addie  now  is  a  great 
consolation  to  Granny.  He  is  a  dear,  clever  boy; 
and  he  works  hard;  and  he  will  enter  the  diplomatic 
service :  he  is  the  hope  of  the  family.  Yes,  yes,  I 
know,  Frans  is  doing  well;  but  Henri,  Emilietje, 
has  done  the  wrong  thing,  going  to  Paris  .  .  .  with 
you.  .  .  .  No,  child,  don't  kiss  Granny;  she's 
vexed.  .  .  .  And  Karel  isn't  behaving  at  all  well, 
so  Uncle  van  Naghel  says.  They  don't  always  tell 
Granny;  but  Granny  hears,  when  they  think  she's 
deaf  and  whisper  things  to  one  another.  Ah,  child, 
it  would  be  better  if  Granny  died!  She's  getting 
too  old,  dear,  she's  getting  too  old.  .  .  .  She 
could  have  borne  all  this  trouble  once,  but  she 
can't  do  it  now,  Emilietje,  she  can't  bear  it 
now.  ..." 

And  the  old  woman  sobbed  quietly;  the  tears 
flowed  without  ceasing.  She  now  let  Emilietje  em- 
brace her  passionately;  and  she  listened  to  all  the 
caressing  words  with  which  her  granddaughter  over- 
whelmed her. 

Constance  entered;  and  Mamma  knew  her  at 
once: 

"  Connie!  Connie!  Have  you  taken  him  there? 
Have  you  come  back?  " 

Constance,  surprised  at  seeing  Emilie,  first  kissed 
her  and  then  said: 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      73 

u  Yes,  Mamma,  I've  taken  Ernst  down,  with  Dr. 
van  der  Ouwe  and  Dr.  Reeuws.  He  was  quite  quiet. 
We  had  reserved  a  cowp<?-compartment;  and  he 
travelled  down  with  us  very  nicely.  He  did  not 
speak;  and  he  held  my  hand  the  whole  time.  He 
pities  me,  I  don't  know  why.  .  .  .  Mamma,  don't 
cry:  he's  really  quiet;  and  he  is  very  comfortable 
there.  He  has  a  pleasant  room,  with  a  bright  out- 
look; Dr.  van  der  Heuvel  and  his  wife  are  kind, 
homely  people.  He  will  not  be  by  himself:  he  has 
his  meals  with  the  other  patients.  It  is  hard  on 
him  to  have  to  do  without  his  books  and  curios. 
He  misses  his  books  particularly;  but  the  doctor 
does  not  want  him  to  read.  And  he  must 
walk  ..." 

44  But  walk,  Connie,  walk?  Alone?  How  can 
he  walk?  All  alone,  on  that  enormous  heath?  He'll 
lose  his  way,  he's  not  responsible,  he'll  step  into  a 
ditch  and  be  drowned!  " 

44  No,  Mamma,  we  shall  look  after  him." 

44  How  do  you  mean,  child?" 

44  It  will  soon  be  Addie's  holidays:  Addie  and 
I  are  going  to  Nunspeet  and  we  shall  be  with  Ernst." 

44  Oh,  how  kind  of  you,  Connie!  .  .  .  But  I  shall 
miss  you." 

44  I  shall  come  and  see  you  regularly,  Mamma: 
Nunspeet  is  not  far." 

44  Oh,  child,  child,  what  should  I  do  without  you? 
Thank  God,  dear,  that  you  returned  to  us  at  last! 


74     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

.  .  .  And  what  will  your  husband  do  without  his 
boy?" 

"  He  will  come  down  occasionally.  And  he  is 
going  away  for  a  holiday  with  Van  Vreeswijck.  ... 
I  only  came  back  to  tell  you  that  Ernst  is  all  right. 
I'm  going  back  to  Nunspeet  this  afternoon.  And 
from  there  I  shall  look  Bertha  up,  at  Baarn." 

"  I'm  going  to  Mamma's  too/'  said  Emilie,  softly. 

When  they  saw  that  the  old  woman  was  tired, 
Constance  and  Emilie  rose  : 

"We  must  go,  Mamma.  ..." 

"  Yes,  child.  But  don't  leave  me  too  long  alone. 
When  shall  I  see  you  again?" 

"  In  three  days." 

"  So  long?" 

"  The  others  will  come  and  see  you :  Aunt  Lot, 
Dorine,  Adolphine.   ..." 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  too  much  alone.  I  can't  under- 
stand it :  I  never  used  to  be  alone.  I  don't  like  being 
alone.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  it.  What  do  all  of 
you  do?  .    .    ." 

"  Suppose  you  took  Dorine  to  live  with  you, 
Mamma?  ..." 

M  No,  no  .  .  .  not  to  live  with  me,  not  to  live 
with  me.  Every  one  should  be  free.  But  they 
might  come  and  see  me  sometimes.  I  never  see 
Adeline's  children  now.  ..." 

"  Why,  Mamma,  I  know  they  were  here  two  days 
ago!" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     75 

"  No,  no,  it's  longer  .  .  .  it's  longer  than  that. 
I  never  see  your  boy  either." 

M  I'll  send  him  this  afternoon." 

44  Yes,  do.  Why  are  we  all  so  separated  now? 
It  never  used  to  be  like  that,  never.  .  .  .  Well, 
good-bye,  dear.  Will  you  send  Addie?  Will  you 
come  yourself  soon?  " 

44  You  must  wait  a  day  or  two." 

44  Yes,  very  well,  stay  with  poor  Ernst.  You  are 
doing  a  good  work.  And  tell  Adeline  too  that  she 
is  neglecting  me  and  that  I  never  see  the  children 
now,  never.  .   .   ." 

They  both  kissed  the  old  woman.  When  their 
mother  and  grandmother  was  alone,  she  nodded  her 
head  up  and  down,  looked  out  at  the  rain;  and  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  without  stopping  .  ,.,  ,.. 
without  stopping.  .   .   . 

Emilie  had  a  cab  waiting: 

44  I'll  drive  you  home,  Auntie." 

They  stepped  in. 

44  It's  months  since  we  saw  you,  child." 

4  Yes,  Auntie.  I've  come  straight  from  Paris. 
I'm  going  to  see  Mamma  at  Baarn." 

44  And  then?" 

44 1  shall  go  back  to  Paris.  I'm  living  there  now 
1.. ,.   .  I  intended  to  come  and  see  you  too,  Auntie." 

44  Come  in  then,  dear,  and  stay  to  lunch." 

14 1  should  like  to,  Auntie." 

They  got  out  at  the  villa  in  the  Kerkhoflaan. 


76     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Emilie  dismissed  the  fly.  Indoors,  she  removed  her 
hat,  took  off  the  tulle  boa,  lost  something  of  her 
exaggerated  smartness.   .    .    . 

11  We  have  an  hour  left  before  lunch,  Emilie," 
said  Constance.  u  Come  up  to  my  bedroom.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

They  went  upstairs;  Constance  shut  the  door: 

"  T«ll  me,  Emilie  .  .  .  how  are  you  living,  in 
Paris?  ..." 

"  With  Henri,  Auntie." 

"  With  Henri  .  .  .  but  why,  Emilie?  Why  keep 
your  brother  from  his  work?  ..." 

"  I  don't,  Auntie.  He  doesn't  want  to  do  that 
sort  of  work.    He  wants  to  be  free;  and  so  do  I." 

"Free  .    .    .  in  what  way?" 

"We  don't  feel  ourselves  suited  ...  to  Dutch 
life.  ..." 

"But  why  not?" 

"I  don't  know:  an  exotic  drop  of  blood  in  our 
veins,  perhaps.  Try  to  understand,  Auntie  .  .  . 
you  have  lived  abroad  a  long  time  yourself. 
Holland  is  so  narrow  .  .  .  and  I  ...  I  have 
suffered  too  much  in  Holland." 

"Dear,  I  suffered  .  .  .  away  from  my  country; 
and  I  longed  for  my  country  when  I  had  not  seen 
it  for  years." 

"  You  will  understand  all  the  same.  Auntie,  do 
understand.  I  can't  possibly  live  in  Holland  again; 
nor  Henri  either." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     77 

"How  do  you  live  there?    Tell  me." 

i%  We  are  both  living  on  the  money  we  had  left 
us." 

44 1  know  how  much  that  is.  There  were  heavy 
debts.  You  did  not  receive  much:  not  enough  to 
dress  as  you  are  dressed.  .  .  .  Emilie,  if  you  care 
for  me  at  all,  tell  me  everything  frankly.  I  am  not 
inquisitive,  but  I  am  fond  of  you,  fond  of  all  of 
you;  and  I  take  an  interest  in  all  of  you.  You 
can't  live  on  the  money  you  came  into  from  your 
father." 

44  I  work,  Auntie." 

41  In  Paris?    What  at?    What  do  you  do?" 

44  I  paint.  I  paint  fans  .  .  .  and  screens.  You 
know  I  have  a  bit  of  a  gift  that  way.  I  paint  them 
with  a  good  deal  of  chic.  People  in  Holland 
wouldn't  care  for  the  way  I  do  them.  But  in  Paris 
I  sell  them  for  twenty  francs,  fifty  francs:  my 
screens  fetch  a  hundred  francs.  I  turn  them  out  in 
half  an  hour.  They  have  something  about  them, 
I  don't  know  what:  chic,  I  suppose,  that's  all.  But 
I  sell  them:  they  are  quite  nice." 

44 1  see  nothing  against  that,  child." 

44  I've  been  very  lucky  with  them,  Auntie.  I've 
brought  a  screen  with  me  for  Granny  .  .  .  one  for 
you  too  .  .  .  and  a  fan  for  Aunt  Lot.  .  .  .  They're 
presents:  I  knock  them  off  in  a  moment.  It's  not 
art  exactly,  but  chic  rather,  actual  chic.  ..." 

And  her  delicate  little  fingers  outlined  a  delicate 


78     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

gesture  of  sheer  twentieth-century  artisticity.  Con- 
stance had  to  laugh  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  And  Henri  ?  "  asked  Constance. 

Emilie  suddenly  turned  very  red: 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"What  does  Henri  do?" 

"  He  does  ..." 

"Nothing?  ..." 

"  No.  He  does  something.  But  don't  ask  me  to 
tell  you." 

"  Why  can't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  understand.  Henri  is  making 
money,  a  lot  of  money." 

"What  at?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Auntie.  It's  not  my  secret,  you 
see:  it's  his." 

"  Is  it  a  secret?" 

"  Yes,  it's  a  secret." 

"  Then  I  won't  ask." 

"  It's  a  secret  ...  to  the  others.  Perhaps  not 
...  to  you." 

She  was  burning  to  let  it  out. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  tell  me,  Emilie." 

"  I'll  tell  you  ...  if  you  promise  me  not  to  tell 
anybody  else  .  .  .  not  a  soul !  Henri  is  ..,  r.,  c«  a 
clown!  " 

"Emilie!    No!" 

"  Yes,  he's  a  clown." 

"No!  .   .  ,  No!" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     79 

Emilie  gave  a  loud,  shrill  laugh : 

11  You  see,  you  refuse  to  believe  it !  I  should 
have  done  better  not  to  tell  you.  You  can't  under- 
stand it.  If  you  saw  him  as  a  clown,  you  would. 
He  is  splendid,  he  is  unique.  He  is  not  a  vulgar 
clown,  not  a  dummer  August.  He  is  simply  mag- 
nificent. He  has  turned  the  art  of  the  clown  into 
something  really  artistic,  something  all  his  own. 
He  makes  the  audience  laugh  and  cry  as  he  pleases. 
He  invents  his  own  scenes,  designs  his  own  dresses, 
or  else  I  design  them  for  him.  He  has  a  way  of 
making  up.  .  .  .  He  has  discovered  the  melancholy 
side  of  the  clown:  he's  sublime  in  that.  ...  He 
has  one  turn  in  the  circus  with  quite  fifty  butterflies 
flitting  on  wires  all  round  him  ...  he  tries  to 
catch  them  and  can't  .  .  .  and,  when  he  does  that 
turn,  the  people  begin  by  laughing  and  end  by  crying. 
You  see,  it's  symbolical.  .  .  .  Really,  you  ought  to 
go  to  Paris  to  see  him.  He's  so  good,  so  artistic. 
...  He  does  a  lot  of  exercises,  to  keep  himself 
supple.  He  looks  much  better  than  when  he  was 
racketing  about  at  Leiden.  He's  very  good-looking 
and  he  knows  it :  he  never  makes  up  ugly.  A  modern 
sculptor  wants  to  make  a  statue  of  him:  very 
fanciful,  you  know;  something  art-nouveau;  in  that 
part,  with  the  butterflies  all  round  him.  He  is 
always  being  asked  to  sit  to  artists.  .  .  .  You  would 
never  have  thought  it  of  him,  Auntie.  Here,  he  was 
just  the  ordinary  undergraduate,  racketing  about, 


So     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

blewing  his  money.  ...  I  was  always  fond  of  him. 
The  moment  he  got  to  Paris,  he  understood  that 
he  must  do  something,  show  what  he  was  made  of, 
strike  out  a  line  for  himself;  and  it  came  to  him  with 
a  flash:  he  would  be  a  clown!  But  a  very,  very  fine 
clown,  something  quite  new,  not  one  of  your  vulgar 
clowns!  He  makes  heaps  of  money,  I  don't  know 
how  much.  .  .  .  And  that's  how  we  live,  Auntie: 
free  and  independent  of  everything  and  everybody. 
.  .  .  Auntie,  you  look  shocked.  But  you  mustn't 
blame  us!  Here,  I  was  unhappy,  so  was  he;  there, 
we  are  happy,  happy  together.  I  am  fond  of  him 
and  he  of  me.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  we  can't 
live  without  each  other.  In  Paris,  the  people  think 
that  we  are  lovers;  they  won't  believe  that  we  are 
brother  and  sister.  And  there  you  are :  we're  happy 
and  we  don't  care  what  horrible  things  they  say 
about  us  in  Holland.  Do  you  think  I've  come  back 
to  Holland  for  any  other  reason  than  to  see  Grand- 
mother, you,  Mamma,  Otto?  I  longed  to  see  you; 
I  have  no  feeling  for  the  others.  I  am  sorry  for 
Uncle  Ernst.  But  I  want  to  lead  a  free  life,  inde- 
pendent of  Holland,  of  the  family  .  .  .  and  I  had 
to  make  it  independent  of  my  husband,  whom  I 
married  in  mistake  .  .  .  and  who  beat  me  and 
ill-treated  me!  We  want  to  live,  Auntie,  and  not 
merely  exist!  " 

But  Constance  did  not  know  what  to  say  and 
shut  her  eyes  as  if  she  had  been  struck  in  the  face. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     81 

She  turned  pale.  They  wanted  to  live,  not  merely 
to  exist!  Was  it  for  her  to  blame  them,  for  her, 
who  herself,  very  late,  when  she  was  quite  old — 
too  late  and  too  old — had  felt  the  need  to  live  and 
not  merely  to  exist?  But  .  .  .  had  they  really 
found  their  life  in  what  they  now  considered  their 
life?  Did  she  not  now  know  that  the  real  life  is 
not  for  one's  self,  but  for  others?  Did  she  not 
know  it  even  though  she  had  never  reached  the 
radiant  cities  of  the  new  life  which  had  shone  far 
off  on  those  unattainable  horizons?  Had  she  not 
guessed  that  it  was  there;  and  had  she  herself  not 
seemed  very  small  when  she  had  had  to  leave  out 
of  her  reckoning  the  man  who  had  become  so  dear 
to  her  that  she  was  able  to  forget  everything  for 
his  sake,  even  her  son,  the  comfort  of  her  existence, 
if  not  of  her  life?  Was  not  she  herself  small  and 
had  she  the  right  to  condemn,  merely  because  she 
was  older  and  therefore  saw  the  purest  truths  gleam 
at  times  out  of  some  shimmering  mist  of  self- 
deception?  No,  she  did  not  condemn  .  .  .  but  that 
did  not  prevent  her  from  being  shocked.  She  could 
understand  now  .  .  .  and  yet  the  rooted  prejudice 
was  there.  She  was  willing  to  accept  their  new, 
fresh,  free  happiness  in  a  life  without  conventional 
bonds;  and  yet  those  bonds  bound  herself,  despite 
her  new  powers  of  understanding.  She  understood; 
and  yet  she  felt  a  shudder  at  those  who  did  not 
tread  the  beaten  path,  the  smooth  track  of  their 


82     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

decent  respectability.  Did  not  a  vague  suggestion 
of  tragedy  show  dimly  at  the  far  ends  of  the  new 
roads?  Could  they  possibly  persevere?  And  what 
would  be  the  result  of  so  unconventional  a  view  of 
life?  Was  anything  but  convention  possible  for 
people  such  as  all  of  them?  Were  they  not  born 
for  it,  trained  for  it?  She  herself  had  found  new 
roads  that  led  up  to  cities  of  light,  but  she  had  not 
trodden  those  roads.  These  .  .  .  were  these  new 
roads  leading  up  to  cities  of  light?  Or  was  it 
merely  wantonness,  youthful  levity,  turning  aside 
from  the  smooth  tracks,  the  beaten  paths?  .    .    . 

"  Emilie,"  she  said,  "  if  what  you  tell  me  is  true, 
don't  tell  any  one  else,  don't  talk  about  it !  If 
Grandmamma  heard,  it  would  hurt  her  so  much! 
And  Mamma  too!  " 

11  No,  Auntie,  I  won't;  besides,  it  is  a  great  se- 
cret ...  a  secret  from  the  family,  from  all  our 
friends.  I  have  mentioned  it  to  nobody  but  you; 
and  I  shall  mention  it  to  nobody.  But  come,  Auntie, 
it's  not  so  bad  as  all  that:  you  look  quite  upset! 
We  have  different  ideas  from  our  parents.  We 
can't  help  it.    Who's  to  blame  ?  " 

"  When  I  think,  dear,  of  your  house,  as  it  used 
to  be!" 

"And  now  Henri  is  a  clown  .  .  t.  and  I  paint 
fans  for  my  living!  " 

She  gave  a  loud,  shrill,  almost  triumphant  laugh, 
followed  by  a  laugh  that  sounded  sadder : 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     83 

"  Poor  Grandmamma !  "  she  said.  "  Poor  Grand- 
mother! She  called  our  family  a  grandeur  dechue. 
And  she  is  right,  from  her  point  of  view.  I  am 
very  sorry  for  her.  I  found  her  sitting  there  so 
melancholy,  so  forlorn;  and  the  tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks.  .  .  .  Auntie,  you're  a  darling;  I 
feel  that  you  are  better  than  I.  But  I  can't  live 
here.  Your  trouble  made  you  want  to  come  back. 
Mine  made  me  want  to  get  away.  You  felt  that 
there  were  bonds  that  drew  you  here.  I  felt,  on  the 
contrary,  that  I  must  throw  off  every  bond.  My  life 
began  with  a  mistake." 

11  So  did  mine." 

14  Is  it  always  like  that?" 

41  Often  .    .    .  often.  ..." 

11  Don't  we  know  ourselves,  then  .  .  ,.  when  we 
begin  to  live?  ..." 

44  No,  every  truth  comes  to  us  later,  much 
later.  ..." 

44  Then  you  don't  think  that  I  know  my  truth?  " 

44  No,  Emilie." 

44  You  are  not  pleased  with  me?  " 

44  Pleased,  child?  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  you. 
All  I  say  is,,  take  care.  Don't  play  with  your  life. 
Don't  waste  it.  Our  life  is  a  very  serious  thing; 
and  you  treat  it  as  .    .   ." 

44  As  what,  Auntie?" 

44  An  artistic  caprice." 

44  How  well  you  have  put  it,  Auntie !     I  never 


84     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

thought  of  that,  never  said  it.  An  artistic  caprice! 
Henri  too:  an  art-nouveau  caprice?    Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Emilie  .    .   .  take  care!  " 

"  Auntie,  we  are  so  small.  We  don't  make  any 
difference.  What  do  people  like  us  matter,  women 
like  us,  girls  such  as  I  was?  Nothing.  Nothing. 
Why  make  tragedies  of  our  lives?  Why  not  rather 
make  them  into  something  fanciful,  something 
fanciful  and  artistic?"  And  she  made  a  painter's 
gesture  with  her  fore-linger  and  thumb.  "  When 
we  are  dead,  it's  finished.  .  .  .  What  do  we  matter, 
that  we  should  be  tragic?  That  is  all  very  well 
for  heroes  and  heroines  .  .  .  but  not  for  us.  I 
will  not  have  my  life  a  tragedy.  I  started  with  a 
mistake.  Since  then,  I  have  conquered  my  life  and 
given  it  a  definite  aim.  Do  try  and  see, 
Auntie.  ..." 

41 1  see,  Emilie.    But  you  forget  ..." 

"What?" 

"The  bonds  ..." 

"Which  I  unloose  ..." 

"  Which  you  cannot  unloose." 

"  Yes,  I  can." 

u  No." 

"  Yes." 

M  No.    You'll  see,  later,  when  you're  older." 

"  I  sha'n't  grow  old,  Auntie." 

u  Oh,  child,  what  do  you  know,  what  do  you 
know?     How  can  you  tell  what  you  will  become, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      85 

how  tragic  your  life  may  easily  become,  if  you 
don't  think  of  it  more  seriously  .  .  .  more  seri- 
ously?" 

She  rose:  an  irresistible  impulse  made  her  em- 
brace the  girl  passionately. 

Emilie  gave  a  start: 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Auntie?  .  .  .  What 
do  you  mean?  ..." 

But  what  was  the  use  of  saying  anything  now 
of  her  presentiment,  when  presentiments  always 
deceive?  Constance  said  nothing  more;  she  did  not 
know  indeed  what  more  to  say;  she  merely  stared 
in  front  of  her,  strangely,  vaguely;  and  what  had 
shone  for  a  moment  was  gone. 

And  she  looked  deep  into  Emilie's  eyes  and  saw 
there  only  a  vision:  Paris,  a  circus,  a  clown,  butter- 
flies, quite  fifty  or  more.  .    .    . 

The  front-door  downstairs  was  opened;  there 
were  sounds  of  footsteps  and  voices.  Ordinary  life 
was  beginning  again. 

"  There  are  Uncle  and  Addie,"  said  Constance. 
"  Emilie,  I'm  going  to  Nunspeet  this  afternoon. " 

"  I'm  going  to  Otto  and  Frances  after  lunch.  Let 
us  meet  at  the  station;  and  I'll  go  to  Nunspeet  with 
you.  I  want  to  see  Uncle  Ernst.  And  then  we'll 
go  to  Baarn  together." 

"  Very  well,  dear.  But  will  you  do  one  thing,  to 
please  me?  " 

41  Yes,  Auntie." 


86     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Dress  a  little  more  simply.  Remember  that 
we're  in  Holland." 

Emilie  gave  a  shrill  laugh : 

"  Yes,  Auntie.  I'll  go  and  buy  myself  a  sailor- 
hat.  All  my  hats  are  too  exciting  for  the  Hague. 
The  butcher-boys  were  shouting  after  me:  'Hat! 
.  .  .  Hat !  '  And,  at  Nunspeet  and  Baarn,  I  know 
the  whole  village  would  turn  out  to  look  at  me  I  " 


CHAPTER  V 

Marietje  sat  in  Marianne's  room  staring  out  at 
the  road.  The  road,  white  with  dust  and  sunlight, 
gleamed  through  the  green  of  the  trees,  described 
a  curve  and  wound  round  the  creeper-clad  station, 
which  stood  in  the  shade  close  by.  A  train  came 
thundering  in,  making  all  the  walls  of  the  little  villa 
shake.  Each  time  that  a  train  rumbled  past, 
whether  it  stopped  or  steamed  through  almost 
without  slackening  speed,  it  shook  the  little 
villa.   .    .    . 

Marietje  was  bored.  She  was  home  for  the  holi- 
days from  her  Brussels  boarding-school,  spending  a 
few  weeks  at  Baarn  with  Mamma  and  Marianne, 
and  she  was  bored.  She  would  rather  have  stayed 
at  school.  Of  course  madame  was  a  beast,  but 
Brussels  at  any  rate  was  better  fun  than  Baarn, 
even  for  a  schoolgirl.  .  .  .  She  wondered  how  she 
would  be  able  to  stand  a  month  of  it.  She  had 
reckoned  on  an  invitation  from  Uncle  and  Aunt  van 
Naghel  to  their  beautiful  country-place  in  Overijssel, 
where  she  would  have  cycled  and  played  tennis  with 
her  boy  cousins;  but  Uncle  had  not  said  a  word 
about  it:  Uncle  wanted  her  to  put  in  her  month  with 

87 


88     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Mamma,  at  Baarn.  Lord,  how  could  Mamma  go 
and  live  here,  in  such  a  house !  It  would  come 
tumbling  down  on  her  head  one  day,  with  that  ever- 
lasting rumble  of  the  trains.  She  simply  could  not 
get  away  from  the  rumble  of  the  trains.  .  .  . 
Marianne  said  that  Mamma  did  not  mind  it  and 
that  she  herself  had  become  so  used  to  the  noise  that 
once,  when  there  was  an  accident  at  Hilversum  and 
the  something  p.m.  train  did  not  arrive  at  Baarn, 
she  had  woke  up  because  of  the  unwonted  silence! 
Well,  that  was  a  bit  stiff,  thought  Marietje.  Still, 
perhaps  the  rumble  of  the  trains  did  keep  Mamma 
and  Marianne  from  going  to  sleep.  For  what  a  life 
it  was,  in  this  little  villa  at  Baarn !  Neither  Mamma 
nor  Marianne  knew  anybody;  and  they  saw  nobody. 
They  had  no  carriage;  and  how  can  one  live  in  the 
country  without  keeping  a  carriage?  Even  if  it  was 
only  a  dog-cart,  or  a  governess-car,  with  a  pony; 
but  you  must  have  something.  ...  It  was  a  rotten 
way  of  living.  A  brilliant  idea  of  Uncle  Adolf's, 
wasn't  it,  to  insist  that  she  should  come  and  bury 
herself  here  for  a  whole  mortal  month  and  bore  her- 
self to  death  with  Mamma  and  Marianne!  .  .  . 
Karel  hadn't  come,  the  brute !  Oh  no,  he  had  gone 
to  Uncle's.  Marietje  knew  why:  because  Uncle 
wanted  to  keep  an  eye  on  him!  So  she  didn't  even 
see  her  brother.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  dull  it  all  was! 
.  .  .  Silly  little  walks  to  the  Beukenkom,  to  Soest- 
dijk:  once  in  a  way,  there'd  be  the  excitement  of 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     89 

seeing  the  Queen  drive  past.  But  that  was  over  in 
a  flash — whoosh  ! — and  then  there  was  nothing  more 
to  see.  Well,  if  she  had  been  the  Queen,  she  would 
never  have  come  and  spent  the  summer  at  Soestdijk! 
...  A  month!  She  would  never  live  through  it. 
She  counted  the  days.  She  simply  longed  to  go  back 
to  Brussels.  Madame  had  a  young  nephew  who 
used  to  make  love  to  her  in  great  secrecy,  even 
leaving  notes  under  her  napkin.  It  was  risky,  but 
it  was  great  fun.  He  wrote  so  thrillingly.  .  .  . 
Ah,  when  you  compared  the  life  that  awaited  her, 
when  she  came  home  for  good  in  eighteen  months, 
with  what  Emilie  and  Marianne  had  had:  parties 
at  Court;  dances  at  the  Casino,  with  all  the  smartest 
people  in  the  Hague;  the  grand  dinners  at  home: 
her  sisters  had  had  all  that.  .  .  .  Pretty  frocks  too. 
.  .  .  And  she,  what  would  she  have?  Nothing  at 
all.  She'd  just  go  to  Baarn,  for  you  might  be 
sure  that  Uncle  and  Aunt  would  never,  never  ask 
her  to  stay  with  them!  And  at  the  Hague  .  .  . 
who  was  going  to  invite  her  to  the  Hague?  The 
whole  winter  at  Baarn  .  .  .  good  Heavens!  No, 
she  must  absolutely  get  herself  invited  to  the 
Hague,  once  she  had  left  school !  Granny  had  a 
big  house  .  .  .  but  Granny  didn't  like  people 
staying  with  her;  Aunt  Adolphine:  bah,  such  a  crew, 
she  wouldn't  go  there  if  she  could;  Uncle  Gerrit: 
no,  he  had  too  many  children,  she  wouldn't  care 
about  that  and  they  hadn't  a  spare-room  either; 


90     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Uncle  Karel  was  no  use  thinking  about.  .  .  .  No, 
there  was  only  Aunt  Constance,  who  never  saw 
anybody,  and  Uncle  and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer,  who  had 
no  smart  friends,  nothing  but  East-Indian  people. 
.  .  .  Yes,  it  was  an  awful  nuisance,  but  she  saw 
no  prospect  of  an  invitation.  But  one  thing  she  did 
promise  herself,  to  get  married  as  soon  as  she  could 
'.  .  .  and  to  make  a  good  match  while  she  was 
about  it,  some  one  with  lots  of  money!  A  nice 
thing  she  called  it:  Papa  and  Mamma  brought  you 
up  in  luxury  and,  the  moment  you  began  to  grow  up, 
they  let  you  eat  your  heart  out  at  Baarn !  She  was 
decent-looking,  thank  goodness,  and  her  figure  was 
going  to  be  all  right  .  .  .  and  then  she  would 
marry  a  lot  of  money!  You  had  to  be  practical: 
that  was  the  great  thing.  There  were  a.  few 
rich  men  left.  But  she  .  .  .  she  would  show  some 
sense  and  not  behave  like  Emilie,  who  had  got  mar- 
ried by  mistake  or  by  accident,  so  it  seemed,  and 
accepted  Eduard  just  as  you  accept  a  partner  for  a 
waltz.  .  .  .  Nor  like  Marianne  either,  who  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her  uncle !  No,  mark  her  words, 
she  promised  herself  that  much :  since  she  had  been 
brought  up  in  luxury,  now  that  the  luxury  was  gone, 
she  would  see  that  she  married  money  .  .  .  for 
money  was  everything.  She  wasn't  going  to  trouble 
about  a  title  or  a  name:  if  a  rich  bounder  came 
and  proposed,  he'd  do.  But  a  fine  house,  fine 
clothes   .    .    .   and  a  carriage   .    .    .   and  jewellery: 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS      91 

all  that  she  must  have  and  all  that  she  meant  to 
have;  for,  without  it,  life  wasn't  worth  living.  To 
go  on  vegetating  at  Baarn,  with  that  incessant 
rumbling  of  the  trains,  which  made  the  walls  of  the 
villa  shake  as  if  the  whole  house  were  going  to 
tumble  down  on  her  head:  never!  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  that:  never! 

Marianne  came  into  the  room,  which  was  her 
own  boudoir,  with  a  conservatory  leading  into  the 
garden:  it  was  the  pleasantest  room  in  the  house; 
the  only  others  on  the  ground-floor  were  a  small 
drawing-room  and  a  gloomy  dining-room.  Marietje, 
lost  in  thought,  was  staring  out  at  the  sunny,  dusty 
white  road. 

41  Shall  we  go  for  a  walk,  Marietje  ?"  asked 
Marianne. 

11  Beukenkom?"  asked  Marietje,  languidly. 

"No,  farther  than  that  .    .    ." 

"Soestdijk?" 

u  No,  farther  still,  through  the  Overbosch  and 
across  the  moor,  if  you  like." 

"  No,  thank  you :  it's  too  hot  and  there's  too 
much  dust  and  glare.  Can't  we  hire  the  pony-cart? 
Then  I'll  drive  you." 

"That  mounts  up,  you  know,  Marietje;  we  can't 
take  it  every  morning." 

u  Every  morning!  "  growled  Marietje.  "  Listen 
to  you:  every  morning!  .  .  .  Well,  then  let's  stay 
and  look  out  of  the  window." 


92      THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Why  don't  you  play  the  piano  or  do  some 
painting?  " 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing.  I  can  do  that  at 
school.    I  have  no  accomplishments." 

"  Then  take  a  book  and  read." 

"Oh,  rot!  The  books  that  amuse  me  I'm  not 
allowed  to  read;  and  the  books  I'm  allowed  to  read 
don't  amuse  me.  It's  one  of  the  drawbacks  of  my 
awkward  age!  Why  haven't  you  joined  a  tennis- 
club?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't.  I'll  see  that  I  do  next 
year." 

"  Next  year  .  .  .  that's  a  long  way  off.  You 
ought  to  have  thought  of  it  before:  you  knew  that 
you  were  expecting  your  sister  and  that  there 
wouldn't  be  much  for  her  to  do  here.  But  you 
can't  think  of  anything  here,  you  can't  take  your 
eyes  off  that  horrible  white  road.  It  hurts  your 
eyes  too.  .  .  .  My  poor  child,  how  can  you  stand 
this  place  .  .  .  after  the  Hague !  Don't  you  long 
for  the  Hague?" 

"  Not  a  bit." 

u  But  what  do  you  do  here  all  the  win- 
ter?" 

"Nothing,  Marietje." 

"Oh,  I  know!  You've  grown  pi.  You  go  in 
for  good  works.    Sewing  for  the  poor." 

"  There  are  two  poor  families  for  whom  I  make 
things  sometimes." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     93 

"  There,  what  did  I  tell  you?  I  knew  it!  Well, 
give  us  some  nighties,  in  Heaven's  name !  M 

14  Oh  no,  Marietje,  never  mind  about  that!  M 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  hand  over  your  nighties  and  let's 
sew  them!  " 

Marianne  had  sat  down  at  her  work-basket  and 
Marietje,  out  of  sheer  boredom,  also  took  up  a 
"  nightie."    But  she  did  no  sewing: 

"Just  imagine  if  we  wore  this  sort  of  thing, 
Marianne !  It  would  tear  my  skin.  ...  Oh  Lord, 
there's  another  train!  What  a  row,  what  an 
awful  row!  Aren't  you  afraid  the  house  will 
fall  in?" 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  like  that  noise?" 

M  Yes,  one  gets  used  to  it." 

44  You  could  sleep  to  it,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  it  lulls  one." 

Marietje  shrieked  with  laughter: 

"  Oh,  Marianne,  how  sentimental  .  .  .  you 
.  .  .  have  .  .  .  be-come,  as  Aunt  Cateau  would 
say.   ..." 

And,  to  herself,  she  thought: 

"  No,  I'm  not  like  that,  you  know.  You  won't 
catch  me  falling  in  love  with  my  uncle  for  nothing. 
I  mean  to  marry  money,  lots  of  money  ..." 

But  she  said  nothing,  just  stared  out  at  the  sunny, 
dusty  road.  A  few  people  came  along  from  the 
station. 


94     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"There's  the  rank  and  fashion  of  Baarn!" 
sneered  Marietje.  "The  great  sight  of  the  day: 
three  tradesmen  and  a  hunch-backed  shop-girl. 
Uncle  Paul  would  say,  three  and  a  half  atoms  of 
human  wretchedness.  .  .  .  Another  tradesman  and 
another  shop-girl.  .  .  .  Two  ladies.  .  .  .  Look, 
as  I  live,  two  ladies !  .  .  .  Goodness  me,  it's  Aunt 
Constance  and  .    .    .   and  Emilie !  " 

"Nonsense!" 

4  Yes,  yes,  it's  Aunt  Constance  and  Emilie ! 
Hurrah!" 

And  Marietje,  in  sheer  wild  ecstasy  at  the  unex- 
pected distraction,  threw  the  "  nightie  "  right  up 
to  the  ceiling,  where  it  caught  in  the  chandelier, 
and  rushed  through  the  garden  down  the  road.  She 
flung  one  leg  up  in  the  air  with  delight. 

"  Auntie !  Emilie !  "  Marianne  heard  her  yell- 
ing, quite  beside  herself. 

Marietje  embraced  her  aunt  and  her  sister  madly 
at  the  gate  of  the  villa,  conducted  them  indoors, 
thanked  them  personally  for  the  surprise  which  they 
were  giving  her,  for  the  welcome  distraction  which 
their  arrival  provided.  .    .    . 

"And  Uncle  Ernst?"  asked  Marianne.  "Poor 
Uncle  Ernst!    We  had  a  letter  from  Frances.   .    .    ." 

Constance  told  her  how  he  was  getting  on  at 
Nunspeet,  that  he  was  still  rather  restless,  because 
he  would  look  all  over  the  house  for  fettered  souls 
that  moaned  and  implored  him  to  help  them. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     95 

"Will  the  delusion  never  leave  him?"  asked 
Marianne,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  4<  Auntie,  will  he 
never  get  better?  " 

"  The  doctor  has  every  hope  that  it  will  not  be 
permanent.   •.-.•" 

Marietje  had  taken  possession  of  Emilie: 

"And  so  you're  living  in  Paris?  With  Henri? 
What  do  you  do  there,  the  two  of  you?  Come,  let's 
hear !  Aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  to  stay  ?  Haven't 
you  a  spare-room?  Look  out:  I  shall  come  tearing 
in  from  Brussels,  suddenly  1  Just  imagine  if  I 
did!" 

But  by  this  time  they  had  passed  through  the 
dining-room  into  the  drawing-room,  where  they 
found  Bertha.  She  was  sitting  at  the  window;  she 
looked  up. 

44  Here's  Aunt  Constance,  Mamma.    And  Emilie." 

Bertha  merely  stood  up,  kissed  her  sister  and  her 
daughter  and  at  once  dropped  into  her  chair  again. 
She  scarcely  seemed  surprised  at  seeing  them  so 
unexpectedly.  She  barely  asked  after  Mamma,  after 
Ernst,  after  Henri.  She  seemed  rooted  to  her  seat 
at  that  window,  through  which  she  gazed  at  the 
shadows  of  the  trees.  She  had  grown  thin,  her  eyes 
stared  blankly  and  miserably  in  front  of  her  and,  in 
her  black  dress,  she  gave  an  impression  of  weary, 
listless  resignation.  She  spoke  scarcely  more  than 
a  word  or  two,  as  if  it  were  quite  natural  that  Con- 
stance and  Emilie  should  be  sitting  there. 


96     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Henri  sends  you  his  best  love,  Mamma,"  said 
Emilie. 

Bertha  gave  a  faint  smile,  just  blinked  her  eyes, 
as  though  to  say  yes,  it  was  very  nice  of  Henri. 
But  she  asked  no  questions. 

11 1  have  just  come  from  Ernst,  Bertha,"  said 
Constance.  "  I  took  him  to  Nunspeet  with  the 
doctor.  I  went  down  again  yesterday,  to  see  him; 
and,  once  I  had  started,  I  thought  I  would  come  and 
look  you  up." 

11  It's  nice  of  you,"  said  Bertha,  vaguely,  taking 
Constance'  hand.  "  Is  Ernst  very  bad?  We  had  a 
letter  from  Frances." 

11  The  doctor  is  very  hopeful." 

u  Yes,"  said  Bertha,  as  if  it  went  without  saying, 
14  he's  sure  to  get  over  it." 

And  she  seemed  tired  from  talking  so  much  and 
said  nothing  more. 

Presently  Marianne,  when  she  was  alone  with 
Constance,  said: 

"You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of  course,  Auntie?" 

44  Yes,  dear,  if  I  may." 

44  Are  you  staying  for  the  night?  " 

44  At  the  hotel." 

41  I'm  sorry  that  we  haven't  a  spare-room.  Emilie 
can  sleep  here;  then  I'll  sleep  on  the  sofa.  ...  I 
must  just  go  and  see  about  lunch." 

44  Don't  put  yourself  out  for  me,  dear." 

44  No,  Auntie,  but  I  must  see  what  there  is.    You 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     97 

know,  with  just  the  three  of  us,  we  live  very 
simply." 

She  flushed;  and  Coiistance  realized  that  they  had 
to  be  careful  and  that  they  could  not  keep  the  same 
generous  table  as  in  the  old  days. 

They  exchanged  a  sad  smile.  Suddenly,  Mari- 
anne flung  herself  into  Constance*  arms. 

44  My  darling,  how  are  you  yourself?" 

44  Quite  well,  Auntie." 

44  You  don't  look  at  all  well.  My  child,  how 
thin  you've  grown!  And  how  drawn  your  little 
face  looks!  And  your  poor  cheeks:  why,  they've 
gone  to  nothing!  .  .  .  Aren't  you  happy  here, 
dear?" 

44  Oh  yes,  Auntie !  " 

44  No,  but  tell  me,  honestly:  are  you  happy  at 
Baarn?" 

44  Yes,  Auntie,  I  am." 

44  Do  you  regret  the  Hague?  " 

44  Regret?  .    .    .  No.  .    .    ." 

44  Still,  just  a  little?  ..." 

44  No  ...  no.  .    .    ." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  she  began  to  sob  on 
Constance'  shoulder: 

44  Forgive  me,  Auntie.  I  oughtn't  to  break  down 
like  this." 

44  My  darling  .    .    .  tell  me  all  about  it  .    .    ." 

44  No,  Auntie,  it's  nothing,  really.  I  feel  so 
ashamed,  but,  as  you  know,  I  always  let  myself  go 


9  8     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

with  you  .  .  .  because  I  feel  that  you  do  love  me 
...  a  little  .  .  .  and  that  you  are  not  angry  with 
me  .    .    .  and  that  you  forgive  me.  ..." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Marianne.  ..." 

"  Yes,  you  have,  yes,  you  have,  Auntie.  .  .  .  Oh, 
forgive  me,  forgive  me!  Tell  me  you  forgive 
me!  .   .   ." 

"  How  do  you  spend  your  time  here,  dear?" 

11  Quietly,  Auntie,  but  I'm  quite  satisfied.  I  try 
to  be  of  some  little  use  ...  to  Mamma  .  .  .  and 
others.  I  have  some  poor  people  whom  I  look 
after.  But  I  can't  do  much,  I  haven't  much.  .  .  . 
In  the  old  days,  you  know,  Mamma  used  to  do  a 
lot  of  good  ...  in  between  all  her  rush  and  worry; 
and  I  try  to  do  a  little  now.  But  it  is  hard  work 
.  .  .  and  rather  thankless  work.  .  .  .  However, 
that's  all  that's  left:  to  live  a  little  for  others  .  .  . 
and  do  a  little  for  others.  But  sometimes  .  .  . 
sometimes  I  find  it  too  much  for  me.   ..." 

u  Poor  Marianne !  " 

"  Yes,  sometimes  it's  too  much  for  me.  I  am  so 
young  still  .  .  .  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  done  with 
everything,  for  good  and  all!  .    .    ." 

"  No,  dear,  no.  .  .  .  If  you  only  knew!  You're 
a  child  still,  Marianne  .  .  .  And  life,  real  life,  will 
come  later  ..." 

"  It  will  never  come  for  me,  Auntie.  Oh,  forgive 
me !  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  I  don't  want  to  talk 
like  this  .    .   .  but  with  you,  just  with  you,  because 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     99 

you're  fond  of  me,  I  can't  restrain  myself.  .  .  .  Oh, 
tell  me  that  you  forgive  me,  say  it,  say  it !  " 

44  My  child,  if  it  does  you  any  good  to  hear  me 
say  so,  though  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  very  well, 
I  forgive  you." 

44  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Auntie !  .  .  .  You 
are  good  and  kind;  you  understand." 

44  Yes,  dear,  I  understand.  But  the  real  thing 
will  come  later." 

"  No,  nothing  will  ever  come,  nothing  can 
come  ..." 

44  Can't  it?" 

44  No,  how  could  it?" 

44  If  you  had  the  strength  and  courage  not  to  give 
in,  Marianne,  there  would  be  happiness  for  you  in 
days  to  come." 

44  But  I  have  neither  courage,  Auntie,  nor  strength. 
What  am  I?  Nothing.  There  is  a  great,  big 
river,  which  rushes  and  flows,  carrying  everything, 
everything  with  it,  like  a  deluge.  And  then 
there  is  .  .  .a  tiny  twig,  a  leaf.  That's  what  I 
am,  Auntie.   .    .    .   How  can  I  hope  to  .    .    .  ?  " 

44  You're  talking  in  parables,  my  child.  Shall  I 
do  the  same?  " 

44  Do,  Auntie." 

44  Come  and  sit  here  beside  me.  Put  your  head 
on  my  shoulder.  There.  And  now  listen  to  my 
parable.  .  .  .  There  was  once  a  soul,  a  very  small 
soul,  like  yours,  Marianne.     A  very  small  soul  it 


ioo    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

was,  quite  an  insignificant  little  soul.  It  knew  no- 
thing about  anything,  it  seemed  to  be  walking  blindly, 
walking  in  a  dream,  a  child's  dream,  light  and  airy 
and  fragile.  There  was  water  and  there  were 
flowers  .  .  .  and  there  was  a  far-away  light,  to- 
wards which  it  moved.  As  the  soul  went  on,  the 
flowers  and  the  trees  disappeared;  and  in  their  stead 
a  palace  and  every  sort  of  pomp  and  vanity  gleamed 
in  front  of  the  small  soul.  .  .  .  But  all  that  glitter 
was  just  as  much  a  dream  as  the  water  and  the 
flowers;  and  the  small  soul  .  .  .  made  its  second 
mistake.  It  walked  blindly  in  that  dream  of  pomp 
and  vanity  and  thought  that  it  saw  all  that  radiance. 
It  gave  itself  away,  Marianne,  gave  everything  it 
had  to  any  one  who  might  make  it  shine  still  more 
brilliantly  .  .  .  gave  away  everything  it  possessed, 
for  nothing  .  .  .  for  an  illusion.  And  it  already 
felt  unhappy,  thinking,  '  There  is  nothing  more 
coming;  I've  had  everything  now.'  It  thought  that, 
even  before  its  fate  arrived.  It  saw  its  fate  arrive 
and  could  still  have  avoided  it,  but  did  not,  remained 
blind,  blind  to  everything.  Its  fate  swept  it  along; 
and  it  thought,  Marianne,  that  everything  was  over, 
over  for  good  and  all;  that  it  would  wither  like  a 
flower,  like  a  twig,  like  a  leaf;  and  that  the  river 
would  carry  it  along  with  it.  And  then,  Marianne, 
then  something  else  came,  after  it  had  been  swept 
along  by  fate :  there  came  a  great  revelation,  a  vision 
of  rapture,  an  ecstasy  of  glory.    And  the  small  soul 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     101 

saw  that  it  was  that;  but  its  fate  forbade  it  to  accept 
that  great  happiness,  that  vision  of  ecstasy.  .  .  . 
And  once  again  it  thought,  '  Now,  now,  I  have 
really  had  everything.  After  that,  nothing  more  can 
possibly  come.'  And  yet  something  did  come. 
And,  after  that  revelation,  it  was  no  longer  a  dream, 
but  a  reality,  as  tangible  as  it  could  hope  to  be  .  .  . 
for  such  a  poor  small  soul.  .  .  .  What  came, 
Marianne,  was  not  so  very  much;  but  the  small  soul 
does  not  want  much:  an  atom,  a  grain  of  absolute 
truth  and  reality;  a  tiny  grain,  but  all-sufficing.  .  .  . 
For  small  souls  do  not  need  much.  .  .  .  Just  an 
atom,  a  grain.  And  of  that  grain,  Marianne,  it  even 
communicated  a  part  ...  to  others.  My  child, 
that  is  the  whole  secret:  to  share  your  grain,  to 
give,  though  it  be  but  of  your  superfluity,  to  others. 
But,  Marianne,  you  will  have  to  wait  for  that  grain; 
it  will  only  come  later;  and,  before  you  can  possess 
it  .  .  .  you  must  first  go  through  everything  .  .  . 
you  must  pass  through  all  that  unreality,  that  vain 
dreaming  .    .    ." 

M  And,  Auntie,  have  you  the  grain  ?" 

"  Oh,  child,  the  grain  is  so  small,  so  small!  So 
tiny,  so  wee,  such  a  very  little  grain !  But  what  are 
we  ourselves?  And,  we  being  what  we  are,  is  not 
that  little  tiny  grain  enough?   .    .    ." 

11  For  happiness  .  .  .  some  day,  later,  much 
later,  after  long,  long  years?  ..." 

"Happiness?    Happiness?  ...  .,  .  Yes,  the  happi- 


102    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

ness  of  knowing,  of  understanding;  the  happiness  of 
resignation;  the  happiness  of  accepting  one's  own 
smallness  .  .  .  and  of  not  being  angry  and  bitter 
because  of  all  the  mistakes  .  .  .  and  of  being 
grateful  for  what  is  beautiful  and  clear  and 
true.  .   .    ." 

"Grateful  .    .  ,"     . 

"  For  the  great  dream.  .  .  .  And  the  happiness 
of  satisfying  hunger  and  thirst  .  .  .  with  that  one, 
solitary  little  grain  .  .  .  and  of  no  longer  yearning 
for  the  great,  great  dream !  M 

"But  yet  remaining  grateful  ..." 

"  Yes,  grateful  that  the  dream  has  been  vouch- 
safed to  us,  that  its  radiance  ever  smiled  upon 
us.  .    .    ." 

"  But,  Auntie,  suppose  it  was  no  dream  .  .  .  but 
the  very  bread  of  life !  " 

"  My  child,  who  can  tell  you  now  what  is  the  only 
bread  of  life?  Now,  you  are  only  hungry  for  your 
dream  .    .    .  and,  later,  much  later  ..." 

"Have  I  hungered  then  .    .    .   after  nothing?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  After  nothing?    Oh  no!" 

"Who  can  tell?" 

"Auntie,  is  every  one  of  life's  parables  so  cruel 
in  its  worldly  wisdom?  Do  they  all  teach  that  the 
great  dream  is  nothing  and  the  little  grain,  which 
comes  so  late,  everything?  ..." 

"  I  fear  so,  child." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     103 

M  Oh,  Auntie,  it's  all  words  .  .  .  soft,  gentle 
words !  .  .  .  I  understand  you :  it  is  your  own  story, 
your  parable.  But,  until  now,  mine  ...  is  nothing 
but  the  river  .    .    .  and  the  leaf.  ..." 

44  And  later  perhaps  there  will  come  ...  the 
tiny  treasure,  the  grain.   ..." 

Then  they  were  silent;  and  Constance  thought: 

44  Every  soul  must  first  go  through  that,  must  have 
its  dream.  .  .  .  Not  until  very  late  does  it  find  the 
grain  .  .  .  for  itself.  What  another  communicates 
to  it  never  satisfies  its  hunger  as  does  its  own  grain 
.    .    .  the  grain  it  has  found  for  itself  ..." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Addie  was  nearly  sixteen.  He  did  not  grow  much 
in  stature,  he  promised  to  have  the  same  build  as 
his  father,  for  there  was  something  sturdy  and  yet 
delicate,  something  robust  and  yet  gentle  about  him : 
strength  and  refinement  combined.  He  continued  to 
look  older  than  he  was,  as  though  he  could  never 
quite  catch  himself  up:  his  face,  carved  in  firm  and 
yet  delicate  lines,  wore  an  air  of  calm  serenity  that 
did  not  belong  to  his  years;  his  cheeks  were  co- 
vered with  a  golden  down :  indeed,  his  mother  would 
have  liked  him  to  start  shaving,  which  however  he 
was  not  willing  to  do  yet;  and  so  the  vague  strip 
of  golden  velvet  above  his  upper  lip  had  become  a 
decided  moustache.  His  hair,  with  its  soft,  short, 
brown  curls,  was  exactly  like  his  father's;  and  his 
eyes  also  were  his  father's  eyes,  but  they  had  grown 
still  more  serious,  if  possible,  calm  and  tender,  with 
a  smiling  sadness  in  their  depths,  and,  above  all, 
Addie's  eyes  were  of  a  clear,  untroubled  blue,  with 
none  of  the  boyishness  which  shone  in  Van  der 
Welcke's.  Addie's  were  northern  eyes,  as  his 
mother  said:  Dutch  eyes,  she  called  them,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  Creole  eyes  of  all  her  family,  the 
Van  Lowes. 

104 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     105 

"  Addie,  how  Dutch  you  are !  M  his  mother  would 
say,  meaning  thereby  that  they  all,  the  Van  Lowes, 
were  specimens  of  the  languid,  less  robust  East- 
Indian  type  and  that  his  father  also  had  become 
more  or  less  un-Dutch  through  his  long  residence 
abroad.  "  Addie,  how  Dutch  you  are !  For  a  boy 
born  on  the  Riviera,  brought  up  in  Brussels,  who 
had  never  been  in  Holland  before  his  thirteenth 
year,  how  is  it  possible  that  you  should  be  the  most 
Dutch  of  us  all!  You  have  nothing  of  the  cosmo- 
politan about  you !  " 

His  mother  used  to  tease  him  like  this,  especially 
when  she  looked  into  his  eyes,  his  clear,  calm,  Dutch 
eyes,  as  into  two  blue  mirrors,  with  a  smile  in  them 
like  a  reflexion  .  .  .  and  beneath  that  smile,  a  vague 
shadow  of  sadness.  And  then  he  would  give  a  sober 
nod  of  assent,  laughing  quietly,  as  though  to  say 
that  she  was  right,  that  he  felt  quite  Dutch  and 
neither  a  languid  East-Indian  nor  a  mongrel  cosmo- 
politan. He  was  a  Dutch  boy  above  all  things,  but 
here,  in  this  little  village  of  Nunspeet,  he  felt  even 
more  Dutch  than  at  the  Hague,  especially  as  he 
looked  out  of  his  window  at  the  hotel  and  saw  the 
glittering  white  dunes  undulating  towards  those 
vast  skies,  saw  the  piled-up  clouds,  the  immensities 
of  grey-blue  rolling  clouds,  drifting  by  in  their 
puissant  majesty:  all  the  glory  of  a  small  land; 
grandeur  and  might  and  majesty  towering  above 
the  small  lowlands,  which  bowed  humbly  beneath 


106    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

their  awfulness  .  .  .  Those  clouds,  those  Dutch 
clouds:  Addie  loved  them,  those  awful  powers 
throned  high  above  the  gently  undulating  lands 
.  .  .  and  Mamma,  who  teased  him  so,  loved  them 
too,  her  Dutch  clouds,  so  vast,  so  vast,  as  though 
they  were  islands  and  fields,  larger  than  the  fields 
and  islands  of  Holland  itself.  .    .   . 

It  was  early,  six  o'clock;  and  he  looked  out  of 
his  window  into  the  pearly  morning  and,  with  a 
characteristic  gesture  of  enthusiasm,  flung  out  his 
arms  towards  the  clouds.  Then  he  laughed  at  him- 
self, hoped  that  no  one  had  seen  him  from  the 
road.  No,  the  peasants  going  to  their  work  did 
not  look  up  at  his  window;  and  now  he  dressed 
himself  quickly,  ran  downstairs,  breakfasted  hur- 
riedly on  bread-and-butter  and  a  glass  of  milk  and 
went  along  the  high-road  and  down  a  shorter  road 
to  Dr.  van  Heuvel's  villa.  The  house  stood  some 
way  back,  in  a  large  garden,  quiet  and  shady;  and, 
as  the  house  stood  high,  it  looked  out  over  the 
undulating,  sparkling  dunes,  past  the  dark-green 
masses  of  fir-trees  on  the  moor  which  shimmered 
purple  in  the  early  morning  sunshine,  towards  low 
horizons  of  just  a  streak  of  green,  broken  only  by 
the  needle-point  of  a  steeple:  just  a  narrow  strip 
beneath  the  awful  majesties  of  the  vast  clouds  which 
drifted  calmly  by,  one  after  the  other,  on  and  on, 
unceasingly,  ever  vast  and  majestic. 

The  doctor  came  out  to  meet  Addie. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     107 

"  Here  I  am,  doctor." 

44  That's  right,  Van  der  Welcke,  you're  in  good 
time.  Would  you  mind  going  for  a  walk  with  your 
uncle  presently?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

u  For  I  can't  manage  to  come  to-day." 

14  There's  no  reason  why  you  should,  doctor." 

11  It's  the  first  time  you'll  have  been  out  alone 
with  him.    When  will  your  mother  be  back?  " 

"  This  afternoon." 

M  Of  course,  I  could  send  the  keeper  with  you. 
But  it's  better  that  your  uncle  should  not  see  more 
of.  him  than's  necessary." 

44  Don't  worry,  doctor;  it'll  be  all  right." 

44  Don't  go  too  far,  you  know." 

44  No,  close  by,  on  the  dunes." 

44 1  can  rely  on  you?  " 

44  Yes,  doctor,  absolutely." 

44  Here  he  comes." 

Ernst  came  shuffling  into  the  garden  from  the 
verandah;  he  knew  Addie  and  smiled: 

44  Where's  Mamma?  "  he  asked. 

44  She'll  be  back  this  afternoon,  Uncle.  Are  you 
coming  for  a  walk  with  me?" 

44  No,  I'm  going  to  wait  for  Mamma,"  said  Ernst, 
in  a  suspicious  voice,  with  a  glance  at  the  doctor. 

Nevertheless,  Addie  succeeded  in  coaxing  him 
outside,  down  the  road.  And  then  Ernst  took  Addie 
by  the  arm  and  said: 


108     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

44  Do  you  know  what's  so  rotten?  That  fellow's 
hidden  Mamma." 

44  No,  Uncle,  really  he  hasn't." 

"  Yes,  he  has,  my  boy.  The  fellow's  buried  her, 
somewhere  in  the  dunes.  Shall  we  go  and  look  for 
her?" 

44  Uncle,  I'm  quite  ready  to  go  for  a  walk,  but 
Mamma  is  not  hidden  or  buried:  she's  gone  to 
Baarn,  to  see  Aunt  Bertha,  and  she'll  be  here  this 
afternoon." 

Ernst  shook  his  head  and  grinned  contemptuously : 

44  You  people  are  always  so  obstinate.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  you  don't  hear  Mamma?  Can't  you 
hear  her  moaning?  She's  been  moaning  all  night. 
That  fellow's  buried  her,  I  tell  you." 

44 1  don't  believe  it,  Uncle,  but  at  any  rate  we 
can  go  for  a  walk.  ..." 

44  Yes,  we'll  look  for  her." 

They  went  through  a  pine-wood:  it  was  cool 
and  dark  as  a  church.  Ernst  kept  poking  the  ground 
with  his  stick,  kept  listening  to  the  ground : 

44  She's  farther  on,"  he  said,  4'  in  the  dunes.  Her 
voice  comes  from  farther  away.  Don't  you  hear 
it?" 

44  No,  Uncle." 

Ernst  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

44  You  people  are  so  dull-witted.  You  have  no 
senses  .  .  .  and  no  souls,"  he  said,  roughly.  And 
he  immediately  added,  as  though  afraid  that  he  had 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     109 

given  pain,  as  though  anxious  to  make  atonement 
without  delay,  "  Mamma  is  kind.  You  too,  you're 
a  good  boy.    I  may  make  something  of  you  yet." 

They  walked  along,  up  and  down  the  dunes,  Ernst 
continually  stopping  and  Addie  continually  forcing 
him  to  go  on.  At  last,  Ernst  went  down  on  his 
knees  and  dug  a  big  hole  with  his  two  hands: 

"  It's  here,"  he  said.  "  I  can  hear  Mamma's 
voice  sighing.  O  God,  O  God,  how  she's  moaning! 
She'll  be  suffocated,  she'll  be  suffocated.  Her 
mouth,  her  throat,  her  eyes  are  full  of  sand.  What 
cruel  wretches  people  are!  What  harm  has  poor 
Mamma  done  them?  The  wretches,  the  savages! 
.  .  .  It's  here,  it's  here:  yes,  wait  a  bit,  Constance, 
wait  a  bit.  I'm  digging  you  out,  I'm  digging  you 
out!" 

He  dug  away,  with  his  stick  and  his  hands,  dug 
away  till  the  sand  flew  all  round  him,  making  his 
clothes  white  with  dust.  Addie  had  stretched  him- 
self on  the  ground  and  was  letting  him  have  his  way, 
looking  on  quietly  with  his  serene  blue  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  study  each  of  Ernst's  movements.  He 
said  nothing  more,  finding  no  words  with  which  to 
dispel  the  hallucination.  At  that  moment,  all  words 
were  vain.  The  hallucination  was  so  vivid  that 
Ernst  actually  saw  Constance  through  the  sand,  saw 
her  lying  four  or  five  yards  beneath  the  surface, 
stuck  fast  in  the  sand,  with  its  myriad  grains  pressing 
so  tightly  round  her  that  she  could  not  move  and 


no    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

that,  when,  through  her  sighing  and  moaning,  she 
was  compelled  to  open  her  mouth,  the  sand  at  once 
trickled  into  it.  He  saw  her  body,  as  in  a  black 
garment,  glued  tightly  to  her  limbs,  stiff  and  mo- 
tionless in  that  tomb  of  sand,  in  that  winding-sheet 
which  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  her  until  the 
pressure  threatened  to  choke  her,  especially  now  that 
her  mouth  was  full  of  sand.  Ernst  could  just  see 
her  black  eyes  faintly  gleaming  through  a  screen 
of  sand;  sand  trickled  into  her  ears;  and  the  sand, 
though  there  was  no  room  for  it  below,  kept 
trickling  faster  and  faster,  till  it  became  an  eddy 
of  trickling  sand.  The  trickling  grains  of  sand 
were  now  gyrating  madly  around  Constance  like  a 
great  cyclone  .  .  .  and  Ernst  dug  and  dug,  with 
furious  hands.  He  dared  not  use  his  stick  .  .  .  for 
fear  of  hurting  Constance.  He  dug,  like  an  animal, 
with  frantic  hands.  He  dug  away,  dug  out  a 
regular  pit;  and  the  sand  became  wetter  and  wetter: 
he  was  now  flinging  out  great  lumps  of  sand.  .  .  . 
Then,  as  he  dug,  he  saw  the  dark  body  sinking, 
for  ever  sinking  a  yard  lower:  he  could  not  reach 
his  sister.  The  body  sank  and  sank;  and  he  re- 
flected that,  however  deep  he  might  dig  his  pit,  he 
would  never  reach  Constance: 

"  Addie !  "  he  cried.  "  Addie !  Help  me,  can't 
you?    Help  me!  " 

Addie,  lying  at  full  length,  with  his  chin  on  his 
hand,    looked    quietly    at    his   uncle,    with    all    the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     1 1 1 

serenity  of  his  searching  blue  eyes.  Suddenly  Ernst 
stopped  his  digging,  quickly  turned  his  head  half- 
way towards  Addie;  and  his  restless  eyes  looked 
into  Addie's  eyes.  Then  Addie  shook  his  head 
gently,  as  if  in  denial,  as  if  to  explain  to  Ernst, 
without  words,  that  it  was  not  as  Ernst  thought,  that 
there  was  not  a  body  under  the  sand.  .    .    . 

They  looked  at  each  other  like  that  for  a  few 
minutes.  Ernst  lay  on  his  knees  by  the  pit,  his 
fingers  still  cramped  with  the  effort  of  digging. 
Suddenly,  his  feverish  energy  seemed  to  subside;  he 
shivered  and  cried: 

44  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  O  my  God!  .    .    ." 

Then  he  bent  over  the  pit  and  looked  down.  He 
saw  nothing  now :  the  body  was  not  there ;  there  was 
nothing  but  the  hard,  impenetrable  subsoil.  Then 
he  listened,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  for  the 
plaintive  voice.  There  was  no  voice:  there  was 
nothing  but  the  great  subterranean  silence.  There 
was  nothing  now:  no  body,  no  voice.  He  looked 
around:  around  him  lay  the  sand  which  he  had  flung 
up,  those  senseless  heaps  of  sand. 

44  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  O  my  Godl  "  he  cried. 

Addie  looked  at  him,  very  quietly;  and  Ernst 
shuddered  under  the  blue  serenity  of  that  com- 
passionate, studying  glance.  Then,  with  a  jerk 
which  shook  his  whole  frame,  the  tension  relaxed 
and  his  body  seemed  to  go  slack.  But  he  still 
scraped  some  sand  together  and  carefully  filled  up 


ii2     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  pit  to  a  certain  depth,  so  that  the  wet  sand 
was  powdered  over  with  dry,  white  sand.  Finally 
he  stretched  himself  at  full  length,  with  his  legs 
straight  out  and  his  arms  under  his  head.  He  was 
very  tired,  especially  in  his  head.  He  could  not 
have  spoken  a  word.  Heaving  a  deep  sigh,  he  lay 
staring  up  at  the  tremendous  clouds.  They  drifted 
past  like  something  unearthly  in  their  immensity, 
drifted  very,  very  slowly,  before  his  upturned 
gaze.  .   .   . 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  becoming 
frightened,  as  if  it  were  all  too  big  for  him,  too 
tremendous,  too  unearthly.  And  at  the  thought  of 
his  smallness  he  was  oppressed  with  melancholy,  a 
darkness  that  clouded  his  soul.  He  could  not  help 
it:  under  his  closed  eyes,  the  slow  tears  forced  them- 
selves; a  sob  shook  him;  and  he  lay  weeping,  still 
stretched  at  full  length,  still  with  his  eyes  closed. 
A  big  tear  trickled  down  his  cheek.   .    .    . 

Addie  never  took  his  eyes  off  him.  Now  he  rose, 
came  nearer  and  gently  stroked  Ernst's  long,  black 
hair.  .  .  . 

And  Ernst  just  raised  his  eyelids  and  saw  Addie 
stooping  over  him:  blue  eyes  looking  into  black 
eyes.  Then  he  closed  his  own  again,  breathed 
heavily,  let  Addie  stroke  his  hair.  The  big  tears 
trickled  slowly.   .    .    . 

There  was  no  need,  thought  Addie,  to  speak  to 
the  tired  man.    The  hallucination  had  gone ;  it  must 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     113 

have  left  him  utterly  fagged  out.  Round  both  of 
them,  man  and  boy,  hung  the  haze  of  the  summer 
morning;  a  steady  droning  filled  the  sultry  air. 
Overhead,  clouds  drifted  endlessly,  everlastingly, 
cloud  after  cloud,  drifting  on  and  on.  .    .    . 


CHAPTER  VII 

It  had  gone  very,  very  still.  The  tired  man  had 
dozed  off;  it  seemed  as  though  his  nerve-taut  limbs 
had  relaxed  and  lay  loose  and  slack:  the  thin  legs 
in  the  wide,  creased  trousers;  the  chest  sunk  under 
the  rumpled  coloured  shirt;  the  narrow  shoulders, 
the  lean  arms  in  the  old  coat,  with  its  tired  creases. 
And  the  features  of  his  face  had  also  fallen  in, 
now  that  the  nerves  were  at  last  resting;  they  had 
fallen  in  like  an  old  man's :  queer  wrinkles  furrowed 
the  forehead  and  etched  lines  under  the  eyes  and 
round  the  nose  and  mouth;  the  short,  scanty  beard 
formed  a  stubble  around  the  long  chin;  and  the  hair 
too  was  thin  and  stubby,  a  little  thin  behind  the 
ears.  Addie  looked  at  the  hands  of  the  sleeping 
man:  long,  thin  fingers,  in  which  a  nervous  tremor 
still  lingered,  a  very  slight  tremor,  as  though  quivers 
were  passing  under  the  skin,  over  the  veins.  .  .  / 
The  boy  looked  curiously  at  the  hands,  for  he  was 
always  interested  in  hands,  judging  people  more  by 
their  hands  than  by  anything  else :  he  did  not  exactly 
know  why  and  certainly  could  not  analyze  it.  And 
he  could  see  those  long,  thin  hands  not  only  reaching 
out  vaguely  and  ineffectually  after  art,  but  also 
laying  hold  of  books  with  a  more  confident  grasp, 

114 


\ 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     115 

turning  them  page  by  page.  He  saw  too  a  tremor 
of  pity  in  the  tapering  finger-tips,  which  seemed  not 
to  dare  to  touch  things;  and  those  finger-tips  struck 
him  particularly  because  of  the  short  nails,  which 
nevertheless  showed  breeding,  with  their  almond 
shape  and  the  little  crescent-moon  at  the  quick;  only, 
the  nails  were  bitten  short,  as  though  in  fits  of 
nervousness.  Then,  mechanically,  as  he  always  did 
when  studying  people's  hands,  he  looked  at  his  own: 
his  father's  hands,  but  still  boy's  hands,  though  they 
were  already  becoming  manlier,  short  and  broad, 
white  and  strong,  hands  that  would  take  a  close, 
steady  grip  of  things.  He  no  longer  bit  the  nails, 
but  would  cut  them  swiftly,  with  a  pen-knife,  when- 
ever they  bothered  him.  And  from  his  own  hands 
he  glanced  once  more  towards  his  Uncle  Ernst's  and 
seemed  to  read  in  them  a  soul  highly  susceptible 
to  art  and  of  extreme  sensitiveness;  a  soul  ready  to 
assimilate  the  contents  of  books;  a  soul  evolved 
out  of  loneliness,  out  of  lonely  life  and  lonely 
knowledge  and,  above  all,  out  of  lonely,  very  lonely 
feeling;  a  soul  so  lonely  and  shrinking  that  it  had 
fallen  ill  of  that  loneliness  and  appeared  to  see  and 
hear  actually  the  thousand  reflexions  of  all  that  it 
had  read  in  books,  seen  in  art  and  felt  in  its  lonely 
hypersensitiveness.  .    .    . 

The  tired  man  slept  on.  .  .  .  And  Addie  stretched 
himself  at  still  fuller  length,  while  around  him  the 
white  dunes  rippled  away  in  the  summer  haze  under 


n6    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

those  wide,  unearthly  skies.  He  felt  well  and  not 
unhappy,  though  there  was  just  a  streak  of  sadness 
running  through  his  reverie,  sadness  because  people 
and  things  were  what  they  were.  It  was  a  pleasant, 
benevolent  sort  of  secret  reverie;  and  through  it 
all  there  was  the  desire  to  grasp  things,  to  hold 
them  as  with  the  close,  steady  grip  of  his  own  hands, 
that  close,  steady  grip,  firm  but  tender,  with  which 
he  meant  to  grasp  everything  in  this  wavering,  un- 
certain life,  earnestly  and  charitably  and  above  all 
with  a  great  longing  for  absolutely  understanding, 
for  divine  knowledge,  for  the  sake  both  of  others 
and  of  himself.  .  .  .  And,  because  he  had  made 
up  his  mind,  he  ceased  dreaming  and  began  to  reflect, 
thinking  over  how  he  was  going  to  tell  his  parents 
what  he  knew  so  well  in  his  own  heart.  He  had 
loved  them  with  such  earnest  love  from  early 
childhood  that  he  understood  them  very  well, 
both  of  them,  knew  them  as  thoroughly  as  it  is 
possible  for  one  being  to  know  another.  His 
father  had  always  remained  young,  despite  what 
he  called  the  ruin  of  his  life,  despite  that  other 
thing  which  had  brought  great  sorrow  to  him 
recently.  His  mother  had  grown  older  but  more 
serious  and  lately,  when  she  talked  to  him,  Addie, 
had  expressed  views  on  all  sorts  of  subjects  which 
he  used  to  think  rather  ...  or  was  it  because 
he  himself  was  growing  older  and  understood  more 
and  fathomed  more  of  the  depths  of  this  deep  life  ? 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     117 

Had  Mamma  always  been  like  this?  Were  his 
childish  memories  at  fault  and  had  she  always  been 
the  serious  woman  that  she  now  was?  .  .  .  No, 
that  was  impossible,  he  thought;  but  nevertheless 
this  was  more  an  intuitive  feeling  than  a  definite 
ability  to  assert  it  positively  and  unhesitatingly. 
.  .  .  And  now  he  reflected — he  had  admitted  it  to 
himself — that,  for  as  far  as  his  love  was  greater 
for  one  than  for  the  other,  it  was  greater  for  his 
father,  however  much  he  would  have  liked  it  to  be 
equally  great  for  both.  .  .  .  Still,  he  would  not 
speak  to  his  father  this  time:  he  would  speak  to  his 
mother.  She  would  understand  him  more  quickly 
than  Papa;  and  what  he  had  to  tell  her  would  hurt 
Papa  more  than  it  would  Mamma.  He  would  speak 
to  Mamma  first.  .  .  .  True,  it  appeared  to  him 
difficult  to  speak  of  this  matter  at  all  and  to  destroy 
in  them  a  thought,  an  expectation,  a  hope  which 
they  had  always  cherished.  But  yet  his  idea  had 
sprung  up  with  such  force  from  his  innermost  con- 
sciousness that  he  felt  that  he  could  not  do  otherwise. 
He  would  have  to  speak  and  tell  them  what 
he  had  resolved  to  do  with  his  life,  whose 
impenetrable  future  he  saw  unfolding  before  him, 
clearer  every  day,  as  though  wide  doors  were 
being  opened,  till  he  saw  what  things  would  be 
like  and  where  he  would  go  to,  a  long,  long  way 
ahead.   .    .    . 

He  would  tell  her  that  afternoon,  would  tell  his 


n8     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

mother  first.  And,  as  he  made  up  his  mind  to  this, 
he  felt  that  in  his  case  it  would  be  a  vocation,  that 
the  voice  was  a  distinct  one,  as  though  it  were  calling 
to  him  and  beckoning  him,  through  the  wide  doors 
that  had  opened.  The  voice  that  called  to  him  so 
distinctly  he  would  answer.  .    .    . 

But  Ernst  was  stirring  and  now  woke  from  his 
sleep. 

"  Do  you  feel  rested,  Uncle?  " 

Ernst  sadly  nodded  yes. 

"  Well,  then  shall  we  walk  a  bit?  Else  the  doctor 
won't  be  pleased,  Uncle." 

They  rose  and  walked  on,  in  silence,  up  and  down, 
down  and  up  the  rippling  dunes.  Ernst  was  very 
gloomy  and,  at  last,  said: 

"  You  see,  it's  beyond  my  powers  to  help  all  of 
you,  all  of  you.  .  .  .  There  are  so  many  of  you, 
you  see,  that  I  can't  possibly  take  care  of  every  one 
of  you  .  .  .  however  much  I  should  like  to.  Then 
again  you  mustn't  forget  that  there  are  thousands 
swarming  round  me  as  it  is.  True,  they  are  no 
longer  alive  .  .  .  but  they  feel,  all  the  same.  Those 
are  the  souls.  They  never  leave  me  in  peace.  And 
then  to  look  after  all  of  you,  who  are  alive,  as 
well  .  .  .  it's  beyond  me;  sometimes  it's  beyond 
me.  .  .  .  There's  Mamma,  poor  woman.  The 
whole  world  is  at  her  heels;  and,  if  I  didn't  see  to 
it,  they  would  hide  her  away  and  bury  her.  .  .  . 
Then  I  have  to  look  after  Papa  and  you  and  Uncle 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     119 

Gerrit  and  Uncle  Paul  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  I 
have  all  of  you  to  look  after.  You  never  see  any- 
thing and  you  know  nothing,  you  live  in  a  dream, 
you  walk  blindly  ...  to  your  ruin,  all  of  you.  .  .  . 
Who  would  look  after  you  if  I  wasn't  there?  Who 
would  look  after  you  if  I  died  to-morrow?  ...  If 
I  worried  about  it,  instead  of  quietly  doing  my  duty, 
it  would  send  me  mad  to  think  of  it !  .  .  .  And  you 
never  stay  by  me,  you  keep  on  running  about,  with 
the  wretches  at  your  heels,  waiting  to  hide  you  away 
and  bury  you.  Why,  they  had  hold  of  Uncle  Gerrit 
the  other  day,  in  chains,  under  my  room!  I  heard 
him  all  through  the  night  and  I  couldn't  release  him 
until  .    .    .  until  .    .    ." 

He  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  thoughts,  passed 
his  hand  over  his  hair  and  said,  mournfully: 

11  Addie,  my  dear  boy,  you  mustn't  come  and  see 
me  any  more.  Uncle  is  in  a  bad  house.  It's  a  bad 
place,  that  doctor's  house.  Terrible  things  happen 
there  at  night.  You're  too  young,  Addie,  to  come 
to  such  a  bad  house.  Promise  me  that  you  won't 
come  again.   ..." 

"  Uncle,  the  doctor's  is  not  a  bad  house.  .    .    ." 

"  Of  course  you  would  know  better  than  I ! 
You're  young;  and  you  don't  know  and  don't  see 
things.  There  are  scandalous  goings-on  at  night, 
scandalous  things  in  every  room  in  the  house.  I 
shall  tell  Mamma  to  take  you  away:  I  can't  look 
after  all  of  you  .  .   ." 


120    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Uncle,  you  should  stop  thinking  of  such  things 
and  enjoy  your  walk  and  the  air  and  the  woods  and 
the  dunes  and  the  clouds  ..." 

"Yes,  that's  what  you  say:  stop  thinking  .  .  « 
and  enjoy  .    .    .  and  enjoy  .    .    ." 

"  Yes,  enjoy  nature  around  you  ..." 

"Nature? 

His  restless  black  eyes  encountered  Addie's  clear 
glance.    And  suddenly  he  stopped  and  said: 

"  Tell  me,  do  they  leave  them  alone,  in  my  rooms 
on  the  Nieuwe  Uitleg?  " 

"  Uncle,  there's  nothing  there;  and  all  your  books 
and  china  are  well  taken  care  of.  ..." 

"  Is  there  nothing  there?  " 

"  No,  Uncle,  not  what  you  think." 

"  And  in  the  doctor's  house?  " 

"  There's  nothing  there  either,  Uncle." 

"  Here,  round  about  us?  " 

"  There's  nothing,  Uncle." 

"Then  what  I  hear  ..." 

u  Is  an  hallucination,  Uncle." 

"What  I  see  ..." 

"  That  too." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  Because  it's  the  truth,  Uncle." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  is  the  truth?  " 

"  Through  my  senses,  Uncle.    Through  my  rea- 


son. 


"Are  they  healthy?    Are  they  infallible?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     121 

44  Perhaps  not  infallible,  but  healthy.  And  yours 
are  ailing." 

44  Are  mine  ailing?  " 

44  Yes,  Uncle." 

"  My  senses?" 

44  Yes.     And  your  reason  too." 

44  You  know  that?" 

44  Yes,  I  know  it  for  certain." 

It  was  as  though  the  sick  man  for  one  moment 
doubted  himself,  while  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
boy's  steady,  blue  eyes  and  read  a  strange  lucidity 
in  them.  But  something  inside  him  made  him 
unable  or  unwilling  to  overstep  a  certain  boundary 
which  was  like  a  line  of  suffering  in  his  sick 
mind,  a  grievous  horizon,  an  horizon  which  was 
too  near,  which  he  could  not  look  at  from  a 
distance,  which  had  neither  light  nor  darkness 
behind  it,  but  only  mist. 

44  And  what  about  this?  "  he  asked,  pointing  with 
his  stick  to  the  dune  on  which  they  stood. 

44  What,  Uncle?" 

44  This,  this,  underneath  us!  This  moaning  and 
sighing  and  imploring  for  help!  " 

He  threw  himself  flat  on  the  sand;  he  dug  furi- 
ously: 

44  Yes !  "  he  shouted.  44  Wait !  Wait  a  moment ! 
I'm  coming,  I'm  coming!  " 

And,  rooting  with  his  hands,  like  an  animal,  he 
sent  the  sand  flying  around  him. 


122    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Oh,"  thought  Addie,  "  if  he  would  only  make 
one  more  effort  suddenly  to  see,  to  hear,  to  feel 
that  he  was  dreaming  .  .  .  that  he  was  dreaming! 
Oh,  to  have  him  get  well  ...  to  see  him  get  well, 
all  at  once,  so  that  one  knew  it  by  the  brightness 
in  his  eyes  .  .  .  and  the  untroubled  look  on  his 
face!  .    .    ." 

Then  he  put  his  hand  on  Ernst's  shoulder.  The 
sick  man  stood  up,  walked  along: 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  beckoning  to  Addie. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

That  evening,  in  the  lane  in  front  of  the  little  hotel, 
Addie  walked  arm-in-arm  with  his  mother.  The 
deepening  shadows  gathered  round  them,  pierced 
by  the  bright  light  of  the  lamp  outside  the  house. 

11  Mummy,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.   ..." 

They  were  strolling  slowly  up  and  down;  and  the 
pressure  of  his  hand  urged  her  gently  forward, 
through  the  deepening  shadows,  out  of  the  fierce 
glow  of  the  lamp  and  farther  along  the  road, 
whence,  under  the  starry  skies,  the  meadows  receded 
to  remote  distances  towards  the  last  streak  of  light 
on  the  horizon. 

M  What  about,  my  boy?  M 

How  old  he  was  for  his  years  and  how  serious! 
She  felt  his  hand  lying  heavy  on  her  arm,  like  a 
man's  hand;  she  heard  his  voice  in  her  ear,  full  of 
deep  resonance,  sounding  a  little  more  caressing 
than  usual.  He  was  still  a  boy,  a  schoolboy,  but 
that  was  in  years;  in  his  soul  she  realized  him  to 
be  a  man,  her  big  son;  and,  though  this  made  her 
feel  very  old,  it  also  made  her  feel  calm  and  con- 
tented and  safe  in  the  possession  of  him  ...  so 
long  as  she  did  not  lose  him.  .  .  .  And  what  did 
he  want  to  talk  about  now?    For  he  had  not  spoken 

123 


i24    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

yet,  but  was  walking  on,  silently.  And,  all  at  once, 
she  began  to  be  curious,  wondering  what  it  could 
be  that  he  wanted  to  tell  her  in  that  suddenly 
caressing  voice,  what  he  wanted  to  obtain  from  her. 
For  she  felt  that  he  was  going  to  ask  her  for  some- 
thing, a  favour  almost,  a  gift.  Because  he  was 
leaning  on  her  like  that,  she  felt  that  something 
was  weighing  on  his  mind,  some  oppressive  anxiety 
which  he  would  tell  her  in  order  to  make  it  lighter 
to  bear.  What  could  be  troubling  him?  What 
would  it  be?  It  could  not  be  money:  he  was  too 
sensible ;  he  knew  exactly  how  much  she  could  spare. 
Was  he  in  love?  A  boy's  love-affair?  Yes,  she 
was  convinced  that  that  was  it.  She  had  always  said 
that,  when  Addie  fell  in  love,  it  would  be  once  and 
for  all;  and  she  had  grown  a  little  afraid  for  her 
big  son,  with  that  serious  heart  of  his.  .    .    . 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  asked;  and  she  added, 
playfully,  "  Are  you  in  love?" 

He  only  laughed: 

11  No,  I'm  not  in  love.  But  still  I  have  something 
very  important  to  say  to  you,  something  that  will 
distress  you  perhaps,  because  you  always  pictured 
it  differently.   ..." 

"  What  is  it,  Addie  ?  "  she  asked,  feeling  a  little 
frightened  and  bewildered. 

44  It's  this,  Mamma,"  he  said,  quietly  and  very 
calmly.  "  I  can't  go  into  the  diplomatic  service 
..,  ;.•;  .  because  I  want  to  be  a  doctor." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     125 

She  was  silent,  walked  on,  with  his  arm  in  hers; 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  new  vistas  suddenly 
opened  out  before  her.  No,  she  never  thought  that 
he  was  going  to  speak  to  her  of  his  future.  It  had 
always  been  so  positively  settled,  from  the  very  be- 
ginning, that  her  son  should  take  up  the  life  and  the 
career  which  she  had  ruined  for  his  father.  She 
had  always  looked  upon  it  as  a  vague  form  of  com- 
pensation which  Addie,  her  son,  would  pay  to  her 
husband,  to  his  father.  She  had  never  imagined 
that  it  would  be  otherwise.  It  could  be  done:  he 
bore  a  distinguished  name,  he  would  have  money 
later  on  and,  once  he  had  entered  the  profession 
which  in  their  set  had  always  been  considered  so 
eminent  and  honourable  and  illustrious — the  most 
eminent,  honourable  and  illustrious  of  all — he  would 
console  his  father  for  the  ruin  of  his  career  and 
restore  to  his  mother  something  of  her  old  position 
in  society.  .  .  .  She  had  always,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, looked  at  it  like  that.  And  then  there  was 
still  a  grain  of  vanity  in  her,  dormant,  it  was  true, 
of  late,  but  still  an  eternal,  ineradicable  germ:  the 
vanity  inherent  in  her,  the  vanity  of  thinking  that 
her  son  would  pursue  that  most  eminent,  honourable 
and  illustrious  career.  Now  her  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  turned  upside  down:  the  shock,  the 
surprise,  the  disappointment  made  her  dizzy;  and 
through  it  all  there  came  a  sudden  impulse  to  say 
no,  no,  no,  that  it  was  impossible,  quite  impossible, 


126    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

that  it  would  give  too  much  pain  to  Papa,  to  herself, 
to  poor  old  Grandmamma  and  certainly  to  his 
grandparents  as  well;  and,  if  he  insisted,  to  say  to 
him  imperiously,  almost  in  a  tone  of  command,  that 
it  was  out  of  the  question,  out  of  the  question.  But 
for  the  moment  she  said  nothing;  and  he  said  no- 
thing either;  and  they  walked  on,  along  the  grey 
ribbon  of  the  road,  which  ran  on  through  the 
meadows  fleeing  on  either  side  to  the  last  streak  of 
light  on  the  horizon,  under  the  great  starry  skies. 
He  said  nothing,  as  if  he  had  said  all  that  he  had 
to  say,  quietly  and  simply.  And  she  was  too  much 
under  the  influence  of  that  tumult  of  shock,  surprise 
and  disappointment.   .    .    t 

"Does  it  upset  you,  Mamma?"  he  asked,  at 
last. 

"  It  comes  as  a  blow,  Addie.  ...  I  never  ex- 
pected it.  .    .    . " 

"  Can't  you  understand  that  I  .    .    .  ?  " 

"Understand?  I  don't  know,  Addie.  We  al- 
ways thought  ..." 

"Yes,  I  know:  you  and  Papa  always  thought 
differently.  I  understand  that  it  must  upset  you  and 
that  it  is  a  disappointment." 

"  You  had  better  speak  to  Papa  first.  ..." 

"  No,"  he  said,  calmly  and  quietly.  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  first,  Mamma.  You  know  how  fond 
I  am  of  my  father,  what  chums  we  are.  But  I  can't 
speak  to  him  first,  because  he  would  not  understand. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     127 

And  I  want  to  speak  to  you  first,  Mamma,  because 
you  will  understand." 

There  was  something  soothing  to  her  vanity  in 
his  words,  but  also  something  deeper  underlying 
them,  which  was  not  at  once  clear  to  her;  for  she 
knew  that  he  loved  his  father  more  than  her  and 
yet  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her  first.   .    .    . 

"  You  will  understand,  Mamma,  when  I  tell  you. 
I  don't  feel  in  any  way  cut  out  for  a  career  in  which, 
no  doubt,  one  can  rise  very  high  if  one  happened 
to  be  one  of  the  four  or  five  great  men  who  stand 
out  in  it.  .  .  .  And  even  so  .  .  .  even  if  I  were 
one  of  those  four  or  five — always  supposing  I  had 
the  brains  or  the  genius  for  it,  which  I  haven't 
and  never  shall  have — then  there  would  still  be 
something  in  me  which  would  make  me  feel 
that  I  had  missed  my  vocation,  that  it  was  all 
purposeless,  that  I  had  got  into  the  wrong  path, 
into  the  wrong  sort  of  work.  I  should  always  be 
too  simple,  Mamma,  and  too  natural,  your  Dutch 
boy.   ..." 

He  turned  towards  her  with  a  little  laugh;  and 
she  suddenly  pictured  him,  faultlessly  attired,  in  a 
white  tie  and  a  dress-coat,  among  the  young  diplo- 
matists whom  she  remembered  in  the  old  days,  in 
Rome.  No,  he  did  not  resemble  his  father  as  much 
as  all  that.  .    .    . 

44  Whereas  the  other  thing,  doctoring,  I  feel  quite 
different  about.     It's  the  only  thing  which  attracts 


128    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

me  and  in  which  I  feel  that  I  shall  do  well.  Let 
me  just  tell  you  what  I  do  feel  about  it.  First  of 
all,  there's  nothing  that  interests  me  more  than 
people  .  .  .  and  studying  them,  both  their  outsides 
and  their  insides.  That's  my  head,  Mummy.  And, 
as  well  as  that,  there's  something  else,  a  question  of 
feeling.  I  feel  for  nothing  so  much  as  for  any  one 
who  suffers,  physically  or  mentally.  And  then  I  get 
a  sort  of  impulse,  which  comes  to  me  as  naturally 
as  sitting  or  walking  or  talking,  to  help  as  much  as 
I  can.  That's  how  I  feel;  and  I  can't  tell  it  you 
in  any  other  way.  It's  no  use  my  trying  to  explain 
it  in  a  lot  of  words;  I  couldn't  say  more  than  I  have 
already  said.  But,  just  telling  it  you  like  this,  I 
do  hope  that  you  understand  it,  Mamma,  and  that 
you  get  the  same  feeling  as  I  do.  .  .  .  And  then, 
Mummy,  there's  something  else,  something  I  hardly 
dare  say  to  you,  because  you  will  perhaps  think  that 
I  am  imagining.   ..." 

"Say  it,  dear.  ..." 

"  It's  this,  Mamma :  I  feel  inside  me  the  power 
of  curing  people.  And  I  feel  that  that  power  is 
growing.  .    .    ." 

His  great  seriousness  startled  her. 

"But  I'm  only  saying  this  to  you,  Mamma;  I 
won't  say  it  to  any  one  else  .  .  .  not  even  to  Papa, 
because  I  feel  that  he  would  not  understand.  I  am 
only  saying  it  to  you;  and  I  shall  never  say  it  to 
any  one  but  you;  and  I'm  only  saying  it  to  you  as 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     129 

a  sort  of  justification  for  what  I  mean  to  do.  And, 
if  I'm  wrong  and  it  doesn't  turn  out  as  I  think,  then 
you'll  forgive  me,  won't  you?  For  I'm  quite  in 
earnest  now." 

"My  darling.   ..." 

44  Who  can  tell  me  for  certain  that  I  am  mis- 
taken, Mamma,  and  that  I  have  not  that  absolute 
conviction  deep  down  in  my  soul?  It  is  a  wonderful 
thing  to  have  an  absolute  conviction  like  that  about 
yourself.  I  would  almost  say  that  to  be  certain 
about  other  people  ...  is  not  so  wonderful  as  to 
be  certain  about  yourself.  .  .  .  But  still  .  .  .  but 
still  ...  I  feel  that  this  is  my  vocation.  Who  can 
deny  the  existence  of  what  I  feel  so  very  plainly 
within  me,  even  though  I  am  sometimes  amazed  at 
my  own  consciousness  of  it?  .  .  .1  know,  Mamma, 
that  all  this  sounds  very  strange  and  that  I  am  not 
talking  like  a  boy  of  my  age.  But  that  is  because 
I  am  being  very,  very  confidential  and  letting  you 
know  my  most  private  thoughts.  .  .  .  It  is  so  calm 
and  peaceful  out  here  this  evening,  Mamma,  and 
the  stars  are  shining  so  bright,  as  if  they  knew 
everything  for  quite  certain.  I  .  .  .  I  do  not  know 
for  certain:  I  only  feel  .  .  .  and  I  wish.  And  I 
am  telling  you  my  most  private  thoughts,  just  freely 
and  in  the  strictest  confidence,  so  that  you  may  not 
be  unhappy.   .    .    ." 

A  thrill  of  tenderness  went  through  her. 

44  Darling,  I  am  not  unhappy." 


i3o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  What  I  have  told  you  .  .  .  is  a  disappoint- 
ment." 

"A  disappointment?  ...  Is  it  a  disappoint- 
ment? I  don't  think  so  now,  dear.  .  .  .  Not  after 
the  first  shock  of  hearing  it.  It's  not  a  disappoint- 
ment any  longer.  If  there  is  clearly  something  inside 
you  which  tells  you  what  your  vocation  is  .  .  .  oh, 
why  shouldn't  you  follow  it?  So  few  of  us  feel 
clearly  about  anything.  .  .  .  Let's  sit  here,  on  the 
sand,  under  the  trees.  ...  So  few  people  feel 
things  clearly.  Everything  was  vague  with  me  .  .  . 
until  quite  late  in  life,  dear.  We  all  cling  to  small 
things,  to  small  interests  .  .  .  both  in  our  own 
case  and  in  the  case  of  the  small  people  around 
us.  .  .  .  Do  you  still  remember  .  .  .  that  friend 
of  ours  .  .  .  whom  Mamma  liked  so  much? 
Things  weren't  clear  to  him.  .  .  .  Darling,  if 
they're  clear  to  you,  already,  and  if  you  are  almost 
certain  that  you  are  not  mistaken  .  .  .  then  obey 
your  vocation.  No  one  has  the  right  to  hold  you 
back;  and  why  should  I  hold  you  back  .  .  .  for 
small  reasons,  while  much  greater  things  perhaps 
are  urging  you  on?  For  small  reasons  .  .  .  for  a 
touch  of  vanity,  perhaps  .  .  .  Ah,  you  see,  darling, 
I  am  small.  I  should  have  loved  to  see  you,  you 
my  own  boy,  in  the  diplomatic  service.  Papa  would 
have  been  satisfied;  and  you  would  perhaps  have 
given  me  back  something  of  the  past.  .  .  .  Do  you 
understand?    It  would  not  be  honest  of  me  if  I  did 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     131 

not  confess  that  I  should  have  been  glad  to  see  it. 
But  that  is  because  I  still  cling  to  small  things  .  .  . 
while  you  are  urged  on  by  greater  things.  And,  if 
it  is  really  so,  then  I  am  proud  of  you,  proud  of  you. 
You  see,  my  darling,  there's  always  that  about  your 
mother:  her  little  bit  of  vanity.  She  is  so  glad  that 
you  did  not  inherit  it  .  .  .  that  perhaps  she  gave 
you  other  things — something  very  small,  but  the  best 
she  had — which  may  become  very  great  in  you,  an 
atom  which  in  you  will  grow  into  a  world  .  .  .  No, 
I  am  not  disappointed  any  longer.   ..." 

44  You  see,  Mamma,  I  feel  it  so  clearly  when  I 
am  alone  with  Uncle  Ernst:  not  that  I  can  do  any- 
thing yet,  but  I  am  certain  that  I  shall  be  able  to, 
later.  ...  I  feel  that,  if  he  were  to  come  a  fraction 
of  an  inch  towards  me  .  .  .  and  if  I  had  the  power 
to  go  another  fraction  of  an  inch  towards  him,  we 
should  get  near  to  each  other,  he  and  I.  ...  It 
doesn't  happen  now;  but  I  feel  ever  so  clearly  that 
I  am  looking  for  something  in  him,  the  secret  spot 
from  which  I  could  cure  him  if  .  .  .  if  I  was  older, 
more  advanced  and  stronger.  ..." 

But  he  pulled  himself  up: 

11  Perhaps  it's  better  not  to  say  that." 

44  Why  not,  dear?" 

44  One  shouldn't  say  those  very  private  things. 
.  .  .  But  I  wanted  to  talk  quite  frankly  to 
you.   ..." 

4<  You  have,  darling.    Don't  force  your  words,  if 


132     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

they  won't  come.  Just  tell  me  quietly,  when  talking 
comes  to  you  more  easily.  Mamma  will  try  to 
understand  you.    Mamma  does  understand  you." 

"  And  you  forgive  me  .  .  .  for  the  disappoint- 
ment?" 

"  It  has  gone." 

"Then  what  is  left?" 

41  A  great  sense  of  peace,  dear.  It  will  all  be 
for  the  very  best,  I  think.  Do  as  you  think,  go  to 
what  calls  you." 

She  leant  against  him,  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  He  kissed  her.  A  kindly,  health-giving 
stream  seemed  to  be  flowing  through  her. 

"  He  knows  already,  he  is  certain  about  himself," 
she  thought,  looking  up  at  the  understanding  stars. 
"  He  knows  his  own  mind  .  .  .  definitely,  definitely. 
O  God,  let  him  always  know  his  own  mind !  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

Old  Mrs.  van  Lowe  had  taken  a  furnished  villa  at 
Nunspeet  for  a  few  weeks  and  gone  to  stay  there 
with  Adeline  and  her  flaxen-haired  little  tribe.  She 
wanted  to  be  near  Ernst;  and  the  doctors  had  not 
objected  to  her  going  to  Nunspeet  and  even  seeing 
him  once  or  twice:  there  was  no  question  of  an 
isolation-cure;  on  the  contrary,  the  patient  had 
always  been  too  lonely;  and  something  in  the  way 
of  kindly  sympathy,  which  would  counteract  his  shy- 
ness, might  even  have  a  salutary  effect. 

Gerrit  ran  down  once  or  twice  from  the  Hague. 
But  there  was  hardly  room  for  him  in  the  villa, 
which  was  full  up  with  the  children's  little  beds; 
and  also  he  was  secretly  hurt  that  Ernst  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  him.  And,  when  he  was  back  at  the 
Hague,  alone  in  his  house,  he  pondered  over  it  all, 
over  the  difference  and  the  resemblance  between 
them:  Ernst  belonging  to  the  dark  Van  Lowes, 
Papa's  blood;  he,  like  Constance  and  Paul,  to  the 
fair  ones,  Mamma's  blood,  though  they  all  had 
black  or  at  least  very  dark-brown  eyes,  with  that 
rather  hard,  beady  glance.  But  what  struck  him  as 
very  singular  was  that  he  more  or  less  understood 
why  Ernst  had  become  as  he  was:  a  little  odd,  he 

133 


134    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

called  it,  nothing  more;  whereas  Ernst  saw  nothing 
in  Gerrit,  saw  nothing  but  a  nature  entirely  anti- 
pathetic to  his  own:  no  doubt  his  deceptive  mus- 
cular strength,  which  was  antipathetic  to  the  morbid 
sensitiveness  of  the  shy,  lonely,  studious  brother. 
.  .  .  But  did  any  one  see  him,  Gerrit,  really  as 
he  was?  And  had  it  not  always  been  so,  from  the 
time  when  he  was  a  child,  a  boy,  a  young  man?  It 
gave  him  a  melancholy  sense  of  security,  in  these 
days,  that  he  was  living  by  himself,  living  a  life 
taken  up  exclusively  with  his  military  duties,  captain 
for  the  week,  out  very  early,  in  the  stables  from 
six  to  seven  seeing  to  the  grooming  of  the  horses, 
the  cleaning  of  their  boxes,  thinking  even  more  of 
the  horses  than  of  the  men  and  caring  more,  hussar 
that  he  was,  for  a  fresh,  clean-smelling  stable,  with 
a  litter  of  fresh,  clean-smelling  straw  for  the  animals, 
than  for  the  details  of  the  troopers'  mess.  When 
the  horses  had  been  fed  and  watered  came  the  ride 
with  his  squadron:  drilling,  target-practice  or  field- 
duty;  then  back  again,  handing  in  his  report,  finish- 
ing any  business  in  the  squadron-office.  This  took 
up  the  whole  morning;  and  in  the  exercise  of  those 
minor  duties  which  he  loved  he  had  hardly  time  for 
thinking;  and  the  officers  for  the  week  saw  him 
as  they  had  always  seen  him :  the  big,  strong,  yellow- 
haired  Goth,  brisk  in  his  movements,  flicking  his 
whip  against  his  riding-boots,  broad-chested  in  his 
red-frogged  uniform,  his  voice  loud  and  domineer- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     135 

ing,  with  a  note  of  kindliness  under  the  bluster,  his 
step  quick  and  firm,  giving  an  impression  of  energy. 
.  .  .  That  was  all  that  officers  and  men  saw  of 
him;  and  he,  for  the  time,  was  what  he  appeared, 
even  to  himself.  .  .  .  But  then  he  would  go  home 
and  bolt  his  sandwich,  alone,  and  would  ride  his 
second  charger,  before  going  back  to  barracks  in  the 
evening,  to  supervise  the  foddering  of  the  horses 
again.  And  it  was  during  this  afternoon  interval 
that  he  was  accustomed  to  pick  out  lonely  roads, 
where  he  would  meet  none  of  his  brother-officers; 
it  was  then,  in  that  afternoon  interval,  when  loneli- 
ness was  all  around  him,  that  he  saw  himself  and 
knew  himself  to  be  different  from  what  he  seemed 
to  his  acquaintances,  different  even  to  himself.  .  .  . 
He  saw  himself  again  as  a  child  in  Java,  a  small  boy 
playing  with  his  sister  Constance,  on  the  great 
boulders  in  the  river  behind  the  palace  at  Buitenzorg. 
He  could  see  her  still  in  her  white  baadje?  with  the 
red  flowers  at  her  temples.  The  thought  of  it  gave 
him  a  curious  sentimental  pang,  which  made  him 
melancholy,  he  did  not  know  why.  Then  he  saw 
himself  grown  a  few  years  older  and  in  love,  per- 
petually in  love,  with  the  earnest  amorousness  of 
East-Indian  schoolboys  for  girls  of  their  own  age, 
little  nonnas  2  who  learn  so  rapidly  that  they  are 
women  and  that  they  attract  the  boys  who  ripen  so 
rapidly  into  men  under  the  burning  sun.    He,  Gerrit, 

1  Shirt.  '  Half-castes. 


136    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

had  always  been  in  love,  sometimes  in  romantic 
fashion,  like  the  fairy  princes  in  the  stories  which 
his  little  sister  Constance  used  to  tell  him,  but  more 
often  in  rougher  style,  longing  to  satisfy  his  greedy 
mouth  and  greedy  hands,  the  gluttonous  senses  of 
his  lusty,  growing  body,  the  body  of  a  schoolboy 
and  of  a  young  man  in  one.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  still 
laughed  at  those  recollections.  He  could  see  the 
school  distinctly  and,  at  play-time,  the  boys  slyly 
looking  through  the  reeds  by  the  ditch-side  at  the 
schoolgirls*  little  carts;  the  young  nonnas}  in  their 
white  baadjes,  peeping  through  the  curtains  of  the 
rickshaw;  the  boys  throwing  them  a  kiss  with 
quivering  fingers,  the  girls  throwing  back  the  kiss 
to  their  boyish  lovers  in  the  reeds.  And  the  as- 
signations in  the  great,  dark  gardens;  the  burning 
and  glowing  in  the  childish  breast:  oh,  he  remem- 
bered it  all!  .  .  .  And  he  saw,  as  he  went  on  his 
lonely  ride — although  he  now  laughed  the  laugh  of 
his  mature  years — he  saw  before  his  eyes  all  the 
girls  with  whom  he  had  been  in  love,  as  a  schoolboy, 
at  Buitenzorg.  .    .    . 

There  was  one  delicate,  fair-skinned  girl,  very 
pale  and  very  pretty.  She  soon  acquired  the  purple, 
laughing  lips  of  the  child  who,  by  the  time  that  she 
is  thirteen,  becomes  a  full-grown  woman,  with  a  ripe 
bust  and  riotous  black  curls.  .  .  .  And  he  also 
remembered  a  coffee-plantation  in  the  hills,  with  a 
young  married  woman  of  barely  twenty,  who  had 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     137 

taken  him,  a  lad  of  fifteen,  in  her  arms  and  had 
not  released  him  until  the  boy  had  become  a  man. 
She  had  taught  him  the  secret  that  was  seething  in 
his  blood,  throbbing  in  his  veins,  the  secret  that 
flushed  his  cheeks  and  took  away  his  breath  the 
moment  he  approached  anything  in  the  shape  of 
a  woman :  the  secret  which  the  boy  knew  by  hearsay 
but  not  by  experience.  And,  ever  since  she  taught 
it  him,  there  had  been  in  him,  like  a  healthy  hysteria 
or  vigorous  sensuality,  a  great  lustiness  of  his 
adolescent  body;  a  surplus  of  strength  which  he  must 
needs  dissipate:  he  never  came  near  a  woman  now 
but  he  at  once  swiftly  appraised  her  arms,  her 
swinging  gait,  her  bust,  the  look  in  her  eyes,  the 
laugh  on  her  lips;  if  he  passed  her  in  the  street,  a 
quick  glance  printed  her  whole  figure  like  a  photo- 
graph on  his  sensual  imagination  until  the  next 
woman  whom  he  met  effaced  it  with  her  own,  later 
print. 

And,  when  he  came  to  Holland  as  a  young  man 
and  entered  as  a  cadet  at  Breda,  the  need  for  lust 
had  developed  into  an  overpowering  obsession,  as 
it  were  an  unquenchable  thirsting  of  those  new- 
found senses  which  were  fermenting  in  the  young 
male  body.  Afterwards,  as  a  young  officer,  he  had 
known  one  quick  sensual  passion  after  the  other, 
taking  each  laughing  enjoyment  with  all  the  careless- 
ness of  a  youthful  conqueror.  His  strong  constitu- 
tion and  open-air  life  had  enabled  him  to  triumph 


138    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

like  that  with  impunity,  for  years  on  end;  but 
even  at  that  time  he  had  often  suffered  from  sudden 
fits  of  depression,  a  secret,  silent  hopelessness,  when 
everything  seemed  to  be  going  black  before  him  with 
needless,  useless,  menacing  gloom.  None  of  his 
fellow-officers  saw  it;  none  of  his  brothers  or  sisters. 
If  he  put  in  an  appearance  on  one  of  those  days, 
he  was  the  same  blunt,  jovial  soldier,  the  fair- 
haired,  burly  giant,  rough  and  noisy,  with  the  mock 
fierceness  in  his  voice  and  the  love  of  women  in  his 
brown,  questing  eyes,  that  went  up  and  down,  doing 
their  appraising  in  a  moment.  But,  secretly,  there 
was  within  him  so  great  a  discontent  with  himself, 
that,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  would  think: 
"O  God,  what  a  rotten,  filthy  life!  .  .  ." 
Then  he  would  fling  himself  on  a  couch,  under  his 
sword-rack,  and  wonder  whether  it  was  because  he 
had  drunk  champagne  yesterday,  or  because  of 
something  else  .  .  .  something  else  ...  a  strong 
feeling  of  discontent.  He  did  not  know,  but  he  made 
up  his  mind  on  one  point,  that  he  must  knock  off 
champagne:  the  damned  fizzy  stuff  didn't  suit  him 
and  he  wouldn't  drink  it  again.  Indeed,  he  wouldn't 
drink  much  at  all:  no  beer,  no  cocktails,  for  it  all 
flew  straight  to  his  temples,  like  a  wave  of  blood* 
and  throbbed  there,  madly.  And  so  it  came  to  a 
secret  abstemiousness,  of  which  he  never  spoke  and 
which  he  calculated  so  cunningly  that  his  friends, 
though  they  knew  that  he  was  no  great  drinker,  did 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     139 

not  know  that  he  could  not  support  a  drink  at  all. 
Sometimes  he  was  fierce  about  it,  allowed  the  drink 
to  be  poured  out  and  emptied  the  glass  under  the 
table  or  broke  it  deliberately,  knocked  it  over.  That 
beastly  drinking  drove  him  mad;  the  other  thing, 
on  the  contrary,  kept  him  calm  and  cool,  cleared 
his  blood  and  his  brain.  It  was  after  drinking, 
especially,  that  he  felt  depressed;  after  the  other 
thing,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  starting  a  new  life.  He 
was  like  that  as  a  young  officer,  like  that  for  years 
at  Deventer,  Venlo  and  the  Hague;  and  his  sudden 
rough  outbursts — of  insolent  gaiety  rather  than 
anger — had  given  him  his  name  as  a  big,  blustering, 
brainless  sort  of  ass:  a  pane  of  glass  smashed, 
without  the  slightest  occasion;  a  quarrel  with  a 
friend,  without  occasion;  a  duel  provoked  for  no 
reason  and  then  a  reconciliation  effected,  with  the 
greatest  difficulty,  by  the  other  officers;  a  need  some- 
times to  go  for  houses  and  people  like  a  madman 
and  destroy  and  break  things,  more  from  a  sheer 
animal  instinct  of  wanton  gaiety  than  from  anger. 
When  he  was  angry,  he  knew  what  he  was  doing; 
a  kind  of  soft-heartedness  prevented  him  from  be- 
coming really  angry;  it  was  only  that  madness  of 
his  which  allowed  him  to  go  really  far,  letting  him- 
self be  carried  away  by  a  strange  intoxication,  the 
same  intoxication  which  he  felt  on  horseback,  when 
riding  in  a  steeplechase :  a  longing  to  rave  and  rage 
and  go  too  far  and  trample  on  everything  under  him, 


1 4o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

not  out  of  malice  but  out  of  madness.  That  again 
cooled  him,  made  him  feel  clear  and  calm:  it 
was  only  the  confounded  drink  that  drove  him 
mad.  .    .    . 

But,  as  he  grew  older,  he  quieted  down  and 
mastered  his  hot  blood,  so  that  he  was  satisfied  with 
a  quiet  liaison  with  a  little  woman  whom  he  went  to 
see  at  regular  intervals;  and  suddenly,  in  his  secret 
fits  of  gloom  and  blackness,  it  was  borne  in  upon 
him  that  he  must  get  married,  that  it  was  that  con- 
founded living  alone  in  rooms  which  gave  him  the 
deep-lying  discontent  which  he  never  spoke  about, 
for  it  would  never  have  done  to  let  the  others  notice 
things  which  they  would  think  queer  and  of  which 
he  himself  was  at  heart  ashamed.  And  then,  as  he 
lay  quietly,  under  his  sword-rack,  he  would  think, 
ah,  to  get  married,  to  have  a  dear  little  wife  .  .  . 
and  children,  heaps  of  children  .  .  .  and  not  to 
dissipate  your  substance  for  nothing!  .  .  .  But 
children  .  .  .  Lord,  Lord,  how  jolly,  to  have  a 
whole  tribe  of  children  round  you!  .  .  .  All  that 
was  kindly  in  him  and  friendly,  not  to  say  very 
romantic  and  extremely  sentimental,  now  made  him 
wax  enthusiastic,  under  the  sword-rack,  the  great, 
strong  fellow  who  made  the  couch  crack  under  him 
with  his  weight:  Lord,  Lord,  how  jolly!  A  whole 
tribe  of  children:  not  two  or  three,  but  a  tribe,  r 
tribe!  ...  He  smiled  at  the  thought;  after  his 
riotous  youth,  it  was  a  pleasant  prospect:  a  nice 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     141 

little  house,  a  home  of  his  own,  a  dear  little  wife, 
children.  .  .  .  He  talked  to  his  mother  about  it; 
and  she  was  delighted;  because  she  had  long  been 
thinking  that  he  ought  to  get  married.  .  .  .  He 
was  thirty-five  now;  yes,  really,  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  get  married.  .  .  .  And  she  looked  about 
and  found  Adeline  for  him :  a  good  family,  of 
French  descent;  connections  in  India,  which  was 
always  nice;  no  money,  but  the  Van  Lowes  never 
looked  at  money,  though  they  hadn't  so  very  much 
themselves,  comparatively,  professing  a  laughing 
contempt  for  the  dross  which,  all  the  same,  they 
could  very  well  do  with.  A  dear  little  girl,  Adeline, 
young — she  was  thirteen  years  younger  than  her  hus- 
band— fair-haired  and  placid:  a  regular  little 
mother  even  as  a  girl.  And  Gerrit,  though  he  had 
had  a  brief  vision  of  other  women,  other  girls,  had 
thought : 

"Oh,  well,  yes,  a  bit  bread-and-buttery;  but  you 
want  a  different  sort  for  your  wife  than  you  do  for 
your  mistress!  M 

And,  after  all,  she  was  round  and  plump,  a  little 
round  ball,  even  as  a  girl,  and  nice  to  hug,  even 
though  she  was  a  bit  short  and  though  her  figure 
was  badly  deficient  in  the  lines  that  set  his  blood 
tingling.  He  never  for  a  moment  fell  in  love  with 
t Adeline;  but  he  saw  her  for  what  she  was:  his 
wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children,  the  little  tribe 
for  which  he  longed,  because   it  was  such  a  pity 


1 42    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  almost  mean  to  go  dissipating  your  substance 
for  nothing,  especially  when  you  were  getting  a  bit 
older  and  sobering  down.  He  would  have  a  healthy 
little  wife  in  Adeline;  she  would  give  him  a  healthy 
little  tribe.  .  .  .  She,  in  her  placid  way,  had  come 
to  love  him,  very  simply,  because  he  was  big  and 
good-looking  and  because  he  was  offering  her,  a 
penniless  girl,  a  modest  position.  They  had  got 
married  and  were  still  living  in  the  same  little  house, 
quite  a  small  house,  but  big  enough  to  harbour 
what  Gerrit  had  looked  for  from  the  start,  one 
citizen  of  the  world  after  the  other. 

He  thought  it  rotten  now  to  be  alone;  and,  when 
Mamma  had  asked  Adeline  and  the  children  to  the 
little  villa  at  Nunspeet,  he  had  grumbled  that  they 
were  leaving  him  all  alone,  but  gave  in:  a  few 
weeks  in  the  country  would  do  the  wife  and  the 
children  good;  and  he  ran  down  once  or  twice  to 
Nunspeet  on  Sundays.  But  the  loneliness  was  bad 
for  him;  and  the  house  that  had  suddenly  become 
lifeless  and  silent  oppressed  him  with  a  gloom  which 
weighed  upon  him  so  heavily  that  he  could  not  throw 
it  off:  a  cursed  heavy  weight  which  bore  down  on 
his  chest.  Add  to  this  that,  in  order  not  to  be  alone 
in  the  evenings,  he  allowed  the  other  fellows,  at 
whose  mess  he  dined  these  days,  to  persuade  him 
to  go  with  them  and  have  a  drink  at  the  Witte  .  .  . 
and  it  was  those  confounded  drinks  which  finished 
him,  simply  finished  him.   .    .    .   He  was  home  by 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     143 

one,  at  the  latest;  but  he  felt,  after  those  drinks, 
as  if  he  had  been  up  all  night:  he  could  not  sleep; 
if  he  fell  asleep  at  last,  he  kept  on  waking  up;  his 
heart  bounced  as  if  it  were  trying  to  reach  his 
temples;  he  turned  about  and  turned  about,  dabbed 
his  face  and  wrists,  lay  down  again,  ended  by  splash- 
ing cold  water  all  over  his  body;  then  he  crept  into 
bed  again,  huddling  himself  up,  with  his  knees 
drawn  up  to  his  chin,  like  a  child;  he  stuffed  the 
sheets  into  his  ears,  hid  his  watch,  so  as  not  to 
hear  it  ticking  louder  and  louder,  and  at  last  went 
to  sleep.  When  he  woke  in  the  early  morning, 
whole  landscapes  of  misty  mountains  pressed  upon 
his  brain,  as  though  his  poor  head  were  the  head 
of  an  Atlas  supporting  the  world  on  his  neck;  per- 
sistent, slow-rolling,  rocky  avalanches  crumbled  all 
the  way  down  his  spine;  and,  with  his  legs  stretched 
out  wide  in  bed,  he  was  so  horribly  depressed  by 
that  waking  nightmare  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
never  make  a  move  to  get  up,  as  if  he  could  not 
stir  his  little  finger.  Then,  at  last,  with  a  groan, 
he  got  up,  cursing  himself  for  drinking  the  damned 
stuff,  took  his  bath,  did  his  dumb-bell  exercises,  full 
of  wondering  admiration  for  his  powerful  arms  and 
ingenuously  thinking,  if  he  was  so  strong  in  his 
muscles,  why  couldn't  he  carry  off  a  drink  or  two? 
.  .  .  Then  he  would  look  at  his  arms  with  the 
smiling  vanity  of  a  woman  contemplating  her  beau- 
tiful curves;  and,  though  his  eyelids  still  hung  heavy 


144    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  round,  too  weary  to  roll  up,  the  waking  night- 
mare vanished  under  the  influence  of  the  water  and 
the  exercises  and  the  misty  mountains  rose  higher 
and  higher  till  they  vanished  out  of  sight  and  the 
avalanche  of  rocks  just  tickled  his  back  with  a  last 
gritty  hail  of  pebbles.  Then  he  became  himself 
again:  his  orderly  was  waiting  outside  with  his 
horse;  in  barracks  he  was  the  zealous  captain,  who 
carefully  performed  his  military  duties;  none  of  the 
officers  saw  anything  the  matter  with  him.  .    .    . 

But,  though,  of  course,  there  were  always  the  other 
fellows,  loneliness  seemed  to  envelop  him,  an  almost 
tangible  loneliness  that  pressed  upon  him,  some- 
thing that  alarmed  him.  What  was  it  this  time,  he 
would  ask  himself:  was  he  ill,  or  had  he  the  blues? 
Blast  those  moods,  which  you  couldn't  understand 
yourself!  Was  he  ill,  or  had  he  the  blues?  Was 
it  that  beastly  worm,  rooting  away  in  his  carcase 
with  its  legs  and  eating  up  his  marrow,  or  was  he 
just  thinking  it  rotten  that  his  wife  and  children 
were  away?  .  .  .  His  brain  was  whirling  with  it 
all:  first  that  rotten  feeling  and  then  the  beastly 
worm.  Sometimes  it  became  such  an  obsession  with 
him  that,  during  his  afternoon  rides  when  he  let  his 
horse  gallop  wildly,  he  would  see  the  thing  wriggling 
along  in  front  of  him.  .  .  .  Then  he  would  think 
of  Ernst ;  and  he  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  chap.  What 
a  queer  thing  it  was,  a  diseased  soul;  and  could  he 
.    .    .  could   he   himself  be   diseased  .  ...  .  in  his 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     145 

soul  .  .  .  or  at  any  rate  in  his  body?  .  .  .  If  he 
told  people  what  he  suspected,  nobody  would  be- 
lieve him.  Outwardly  he  was  such  a  sturdy  fellow, 
such  a  healthy  animal.  But  if  only  they  could  take 
a  peep  inside  him!  .  .  .  That  wretched  worm  thing 
had  been  at  it  again,  rooting  away  in  his  carcase 
with  its  beastly  legs,  its  hundreds  of  legs,  never 
leaving  him  in  peace.  Was  it  just  a  queer  feeling, 
was  it  an  illusion,  like  Ernst's  hallucination  ...  or 
could  it  really  be  a  live  thing?  .  .  .  No,  that  was 
too  ridiculous:  it  wasn't  really  alive.  .  .  .  And  yet 
he  remembered  stories  of  people  who  always  had 
headaches,  headaches  which  nothing  could  cure; 
and,  after  their  death,  a  nest  of  earwigs  had  been 
found  swarming  in  their  brains.  .  .  .  Imagine,  if 
it  should  be  some  beastly  insect!  But  no,  it  wasn't 
alive,  it  wasn't  alive:  he  only  called  it  a  worm  or 
centipede  because  that  described  the  beastly  sensa- 
tion. .  .  .  Should  he  go  and  see  a  doctor,  some 
clever  specialist  at  Amsterdam?  .  .  .  But  what  was 
he  to  say? 

"  Doctor,  there's  something  crawling  about  inside 
my  carcase  like  a  beastly  centipede !  M 

And  the  doctor  would  tell  him  to  undress  and 
would  look  at  his  carcase,  still  young  and  fresh,  not- 
withstanding his  earlier  rackety  life,  with  the  muscles 
in  good  condition,  the  joints  flexible,  the  chest 
broad,  the  lungs  expanded,  and  would  stare  at 
him     and    think  ...  he    would    think  .    .    .  the 


i46    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

specialist  would  think  that  he  was  mad !  He  would 
ask  questions  about  his  brothers  and  sisters  . 
and  he  would  want  to  see  Ernst  .  .  .  and  he  would 
draw  all  sorts  of  learned  conclusions,  would  the 
clever  specialist.  .  .  .  No,  hanged  if  he  would  go 
to  a  doctor;  he  would  be  ashamed  to  say: 

u  Doctor,  there's  something  crawling  about  inside 
my  carcase,  like  a  beastly  centipede." 

He  would  be  ashamed,  absolute  ashamed.  .    .    . 

Or  to  say: 

M  Doctor,  a  gin-and-bitters  upsets  me." 

"  Well,  captain,"  the  doctor  would  say,  "  then 
you'd  better  not  take  a  gin-and-bitters." 

What  was  the  use  of  going  to  a  doctor,  or  even 
a  specialist?  He  would  not  do  it,  he  would  not. 
.  .  .  The  best  thing  was  to  be  abstemious,  cer- 
tainly not  take  any  drinks  .  .  .  and  then  grapple 
with  that  damned  sensation — come,  he  wasn't  a  girl ! 
— and  not  think  about  it,  just  stop  thinking  about 
it.  .  .  .  He  must  have  a  little  distraction:  he  was 
leading  such  a  lonely  life  these  days.  And,  in  that 
loneliness,  without  his  wife  and  children,  he  began 
to  think,  with  that  incurable  sentimentality  which 
lay  hidden  deep  down  in  him,  of  the  comfort  it  was 
to  belong  to  a  large  family,  of  the  way  it  cheered 
you  up.  .  .  .  Theirs  had  been  a  big  family:  but 
how  it  was  scattering  now !  Bertha's  little  tribe  had 
all  broken  up.  .  .  .  The  others  Mamma  still  kept 
together;  and  that  Sunday  evening  was  a  capital 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     147 

institution  of  Mamma's.  .  .  .  And  so  he  would 
look  in  on  Karel  and  Cateau  towards  dinner-time, 
hoping  that  they  would  ask  him  to  stay  and  that  for 
once  he  would  not  have  to  dine  with  the  other  fellows 
at  the  mess;  but  they  did  not  ask  him  and,  when  it 
was  nearly  six,  Gerrit,  feeling  almost  uncomfortable, 
heaved  his  big  body  out  of  his  chair  and  went 
and  joined  the  others,  reflecting  that  Karel  and 
Cateau  had  little  by  little  become  utter  strangers. 
.  .  .  And,  though  he  was  not  awfully  keen  on 
Adolphine,  he  sank  his  pride,  invited  himself  to  her 
house  and  stayed  on  for  the  whole  evening;  and 
he  had  to  confess  to  himself  that,  upon  his  word, 
Adolphine  was  at  her  best  in  her  own  house  and 
that  the  evening  had  not  been  so  bad.  Constance 
was  at  Baarn  one  day,  at  Nunspeet  another;  Van 
der  Welcke  was  abroad;  but  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  was 
at  the  Hague — Uncle  had  gone  to  India — and  Aunt 
Lot  was  always  jolly: 

11  Yes,  Herrit.  .  .  .  You  showed  a  ghood  nose 
to  come  here.  .  .  .  We're  having  nassi.1  .  .  . 
You'll  stay  and  lhunch,  take  pot  lhuck,  eh,  Herrit, 
what?" 

He  accepted  gratefully,  felt  a  sudden  radiant  glow 
inside  him,  just  where  loneliness  gave  him  a  feeling 
of  icy  cold.  Yes,  he  would  stay  to  lunch:  he  loved 
the  East-Indian  "  rice-table,"  the  way  Aunt  and 
Toetie  made  it;  and  he  was  secretly  glad  that  Uncle 

1  Malay:  rice,  currie. 


148     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

was  away,  for  he  didn't  like  Uncle.  In  Aunt  Lot's 
big,  roomy  house  there  was  a  sort  of  genial  warmth 
that  gave  him  a  delicious  sensation  and  almost  left 
him  weak,  as  though  a  smell  of  Java  pervaded 
everything  around,  reminding  him  of  his  childhood. 
The  house  was  full  of  Japanese  porcelain;  there 
were  stuffed  birds  of  paradise;  under  a  big  square 
glass  cover  was  a  whole  passer,1  with  tiny  dolls  as 
toys:  little  warongs,2  little  herds  of  cattle;  there 
were  Malay  weapons  on  the  walls;  in  Aunt's  con- 
servatory there  were  mats  on  the  floor,  as  in  Java; 
and  Gerrit  thought  it  fun  to  tease  Alima,  though  she 
was  dressed  as  a  European,  and  he  was  only  sorry 
that  she  was  not  latta?  because  that  reminded  him  of 
the  latta  servants  whom  he  used  to  tease,  in  Java, 
as  a  child: 

"  Boeang,  baboe;  baboe,  boeang!  "  4 

And  from  the  Japanese  porcelain  and  the  birds 
of  paradise  and  the  passer  there  came  that  same 
smell,  the  smell  that  pervaded  the  whole  house,  a 
smell  of  akar-wangi5  and  sandalwood;  and,  while 
Aunt  was  making  "  rice-table  "  and  Alima  running 
from  the  store-room  to  the  kitchen  with  a  basket 
full  of  bottles  of  Indian  spices,  Gerrit  felt  his  mouth 
water : 

1  Market-place,  bazaar. 
a  Booths. 

*  Attractive,  pretty. 

*  "  Put  the  baby  down,  nurse ;  nurse,  put  baby  down." 
5  Cedarwood,  or  any  other  scented  wood. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     149 

u  Aunt,  we're  going  to  have  a  great  tuck-in !  " 

"Allah,1  that  boy  Herrit!"  chortled  Aunt  Lot, 
looking  terribly  fat,  with  her  vast,  pendulous  bosom, 
wearing  no  stays,  indoors,  but  with  brilliants  the 
size  of  turnips  in  her  ears.  "Allah,  that  Herrit: 
he'd  murder  his  own  father  for  nassif  " 

And  Aunt  went  into  ecstasies:  Aunt,  turned  into 
a  mobile  Hindu  idol,  ran  from  kitchen  to  cellar  and 
store-room;  Toetie  ran  too;  Alima  ran  too.  The 
aromatic  fragrance  filled  the  whole  house.  There 
would  be  pens,  black  and  scented  and  hot. 

44  Oh,  for  rice,  with  a  dried  fish,  and  petis!" 
Gerrit  rhapsodized. 

And  Aunt  laughed  till  the  tears  came,  happy  and 
glad  because  Gerrit  was  fond  of  nassi. 

But  there  would  also  be  kroepoek,2  golden  and 
crisp:  the  dried  fish  which,  when  heated,  swelled 
up  into  brittle  flakes,  flakes  that  cracked  in  your 
fingers  as  you  broke  them  and  between  your  teeth  as 
you  crunched  them;  and  then  there  would  be  lodeh,3 
with  a  creamy  sauce  full  of  floating  vegetables  and 
tjabc;  and,  to  follow  on  the  rice,  Aunt  had  made 
djedjonkong,  the  Java  sugar-cake,  with  the  icing 
of  white  maizena*  on  the  top;  only  Aunt  was  sorry 
that  she  could  get  no  santenf  in  4<  Gholland,"  and 

*Lord! 

a  The  dried  fish  known  in  British  India  as  Bombay  duck. 

*  A  sort  of  cocoa-nut. 

*  Indian  cornflour. 

*  Cocoa-nut  milk. 


150    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

had    to    do    the    best    she    could    with    milk    and 
cream.  .    .    . 

And,  when  at  last  they  sat  down  to  table — Aunt, 
the  three  girls  and  Gerrit,  the  enthusiastic  Gerrit — 
Aunt  and  the  little  cousins  would  laugh  aloud : 

"Allah,  that  boy  Herrit!" 

And  they  vied  with  one  another  who  should  help 
him,  very  carefully,  so  that  the  rice  should  not  make 
a  messy  heap  on  his  plate: 

"  No,  don't  mix  up  your  food!"  Aunt  Lot  en- 
treated. "  That  Dhutch  totok  l  way  of  mixing 
up  everything  together :  I  can't  stand  it.  Keep  your 
rice  clean,  as  clean  as  you  can." 

"  Yes,  Aunt,  as  maidenly  as  a  young  girl !  "  cried 
Gerrit,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

And  Aunt  again  laughed  till  the  tears  came :  too 
bhad,  you  know! 

"  And  now  your  lodeh  in  the  little  saucer  .  .  . 
that's  it  .  .  .  so-o!  .  .  .  And  the  sambal,2  neatly 
on  the  edge  of  your  plate :  don't  mix  it  up,  Herrit ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  that  boy  Herrit !  .  .  .  Take  a  taste  now : 
each  sambal  with  a  spoonful  of  rice  .  .  .  that's  it 
.  .  .  so-o!  .  .  .  The  kroepoek  on  the  table-cloth 
.  .  .  that's  it  .  .  .  so-o !  .  .  .  And  now  ghobble 
away  .  .  .  Allah,  that  boy  Herrit:  he'd  murder 
his  own  father  for  nassi!  .  .  .  Kassian,  Van 
Lowe!" 

1  The  nickname  given  by  the  half-castes  to  the  pure  bred  Dutch. 
*  Red  pepper,  capsicum. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     151 

This  last  exclamation  was  meant  to  convey  that 
Van  Lowe,  Gerrit's  father,  was  dead  long  since 
and  that  Gerrit  therefore  could  not  murder  his 
father  for  nassi  if  he  wanted  to;  and  this  time 
Aunt's  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  real  emotion,  not  of 
laughter:  kassian,  Van  Lowe! 

Gerrit  no  longer  felt  lonely  and  ceased  thinking 
of  those  queer  feelings  of  his.  He  ate  his  rice 
with  due  respect,  ate  it  slowly,  so  as  to  spin 
out  the  enjoyment  as  long  as  he  could;  but  it 
was  an  effort,  you  know,  with  Aunt  and  Toetie 
and  Dotje  and  Poppie  vying  with  one  another  in 
turns : 

11  Herrit,  have  some  more  sambal-tomaat '  .  .  . 
Herrit,  fill  up  your  lodel-sauccr.  .  .  .  Herrit,  take 
some  ketimoen:2  that's  nice  and  cool,  if  your 
mouth's  burning.   ..." 

And,  though  Gerrit's  palate  was  on  fire,  though 
the  sambal  rose  to  his  temples  till  it  congested  his 
brain  like  a  cocktail,  Gerrit  went  on  eating,  took 
another  spoonful  of  clean  rice,  took  another  taste 
of  black  petis.  .    .    . 

14  Herrit,  there's  djedjonkong  coming  I"  Aunt 
warned  him.  "  You  won't  leave  me  in  the  lurch 
with  my  djedjonkong,  will  you,  Herrit?" 

And  Gerrit  declared  that  Aunt  was  making  heavy 
demands  on  his  stomach,  but  that  he  would  manage 
to  leave  room  for  the  djedjonkong ;  and  he  banged 

1  Tomato-capsicum.  *  Cucumber,  gherkin. 


1 52    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

one  fist  upon  the  other,  to  express  that  he  would 
bang  the  nassi  together  in  his  stomach,  to  make  room 
for  the  sugar-cake.  Aunt  was  radiant  with  pleasure, 
because  Gerrit  thought  everything  so  delicious ;  and, 
after  the  djedjonkong,  as  Gerrit  sat  puffing  and 
blowing,  she  suggested: 

44  Come,  Herrit,  nappas1  a  bit  now!" 

And  Gerrit  took  the  liberty  of  loosing  a  few 
buttons  of  his  uniform  and  dropped,  with  legs  wide 
outstretched,  into  a  wicker  deck-chair,  while  Aunt 
invited  him  to  be  sure  and  not  leave  her  in  the 
lurch,  next  day,  with  the  remnants. 

The  curry  lunch  at  Aunt  Lot's  put  Gerrit  in  good 
spirits  for  the  whole  day.  He  puffed  and  blew  more 
in  fun  than  in  reality;  he  extolled  the  "rice-table," 
which  is  never  heavy,  the  tjabe,  which  clears  your 
blood  and  your  brain;  and  it  was  as  though  Aunt's 
aromatic  and  very  strong  sambals  filled  him  with 
the  joy  of  life,  for  that  day,  and  also  with  a  certain 
tenderness,  because  it  all  reminded  him  of  his  child- 
hood at  Buitenzorg.  He  took  his  afternoon  ride 
quietly  and  pleasantly:  excellent  exercise,  after  the 
generous  meal;  arrived  at  the  mess  in  good  spirits 
and  did  not  eat  much,  gassing  about  Aunt  Lot's 
nassi;  and,  when  he  went  home,  at  a  reasonable 
hour  in  the  evening,  he  asked  himself: 

44  If  I  can  have  such  good  days,  why  should  I 

1  Take  breath. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     153 

have  such  rotten  ones?  I  shall  tell  Line  to  give  us 
nassi  every  day;  but  Line  can't  do  it  as  Aunt  Lot 
does.   .    .    .,: 

Another  day,  Gerrit,  with  that  sentimental  long- 
ing for  his  own  people,  went  and  looked  up  Paul. 
He  found  him  in  his  sitting-room,  the  place  beauti- 
fully tidy,  Paul  lying  on  the  sofa  in  a  silk  shirt 
and  a  white-flannel  jacket,  reading  a  modern  novel. 
And  Paul  was  very  amiable,  even  allowed  Gerrit 
to  smoke  a  cigar:  one  of  his  own,  for  Paul  did  not 
smoke;  only,  he  asked  Gerrit  not  to  make  a  mess 
with  the  ash  and  to  throw  the  match  into  the  waste- 
paper-basket  at  once,  because  he  couldn't  stand  used 
matches  about  the  place. 

44  Aren't  you  going  away  this  summer?"  asked 
Gerrit. 

44  Not  I,  my  dear  fellow!"  said  Paul,  decidedly. 
44  It's  such  dirty  work,  travelling:  your  skin  gets 
black,  your  nails  get  black  in  the  train;  your  clothes 
get  creased  in  your  trunk;  and  you  never  know  what 
sort  of  bed  awaits  you.  No,  I'm  getting  too  old 
to  go  away.   ..." 

44  But  aren't  you  even  going  to  Nunspeet?  " 

44  Oh,  my  dear  Gerrit,"  Paul  implored,  44  what  is 
the  use  of  my  going  to  Nunspeet?  Mamma  has 
Adeline  and  the  children  with  her;  Constance  is 
devoting  herself  to  Ernst:  what  earthly  use  would 
it  be  for  me  to  go  to  Nunspeet?   ...    All  that 


154    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

travelling  is  such  a  nuisance ;  and  going  to  Nunspeet 
would  make  me  almost  as  dirty  as  going  to  Switzer- 
land. .  .  .  No,  I  shall  stay  where  I  am.  The 
landlady's  very  clean  and  so  is  the  maid;  and, 
though  I  have  to  see  to  a  lot  myself,  of  course, 
things  are  fairly  well  cared  for  .  .  .  and  not  too 
dirty.   ..■'.•» 

"  But,  Paul,"  said  Gerrit,  with  a  sort  of  "  Look 
here,  drop  it !  "  gesture,  "  that  cleanliness  of  yours 
is  becoming  a  mania !  " 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  have  a  mania  as  well  as 
any  one  else  ?  "  asked  Paul,  in  an  offended  voice. 
"  Every  one  has  a  mania.  You  have  a  mania  for 
bringing  children  into  the  world.  Mine  is  compara- 
tively sterile,  but  has  just  as  much  right  to  exist  as 
yours." 

"  But,  Paul,  you're  becoming  an  old  fogey  at 
this  rate,  never  moving,  for  fear  of  a  speck  of 
dirt.  If  you  go  on  like  this,  you'll  get  rooted  in  a 
little  selfish  circle  of  your  own,  you'll  cease  to  take 
an  interest  in  anything  .  .  .  and  you're  young  still, 
only  just  thirty-eight.  ..." 

"  I've  taken  an  interest  in  the  world  for  years," 
said  Paul,  "  but  I  consider  the  world  such  a  vile, 
dirty  rubbish-heap,  such  a  conglomeration  of  human 
wretchedness,  such  a  rotten,  scurvy,  stinking,  filthy 
dustbin   ..." 

"But,  Paul,  you're  absurd!" 

"  Because  I  choose  at  last  to  retire  into  my  room, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     155 

where  at  least  things  are  clean!"  said  Paul,  with 
a  gesture  of  irritation. 

14  My  dear  chap,  you  don't  mean  what  you  say: 
I  can't  tell  if  you're  serious  or  humbugging." 

11  Serious?  You  say  I'm  not  serious?  "  cried  Paul, 
grinning  scornfully  and  working  himself  into  a  real 
temper.     "  Do  you  think  I'm  not  serious?  " 

"  Well,  if  you're  serious,  then  I  say  that  you're 
simply  diseased." 

"Diseased?" 

44  Yes,  diseased:  just  as  much  as  Ernst  is  dis- 
eased. That  tidiness  of  yours  is  a  mania;  that  way 
of  looking  upon  the  world  as  a  dustbin  is  a  disease. 
You  were  always  a  humbug,  but  at  least  you  used 
to  be  good  company,  you  used  to  be  a  brilliant 
talker;  and  nowadays,  for  some  time  past,  you  show 
yourself  nowhere,  you  shut  yourself  up,  you're  be- 
coming impossible  and  a  bore   ..." 

44  I'm  becoming  older,"  said  Paul,  soberly.  "  A 
brilliant  talker?  I  may  have  been,  perhaps.  But 
it's  not  worth  while.  The  moment  you  fashion  a 
thought  into  words  and  try  to  express  it,  no  one 
listens  to  you.  People  are  just  as  sloppy  and  messy 
in  their  conversation  as  in  everything  else.  It's  not 
worth  while.  .  .  .  And  yet,"  he  said,  with  a  touch 
of  melancholy,  u  you're  right:  I  used  to  be  different. 
But  it's  really  not  worth  while,  old  fellow,  in  my 
case.  You  have  your  wife  and  your  children:  not 
that  I'm  yearning  for  a  wife  and  children,  especially 


156    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

such  an  ant-hill  as  you've  brought  into  the  world. 
But  what  have  I?  The  club  bores  me.  Doing 
anything  bores  me.  I  am  too  modern  for  the 
old  ideas  and  not  modern  enough  for  the  new 
ones." 

His  eyes  lit  up  as  he  heard  himself  beginning  to 
talk: 

"Yes,  the  old  ideas,"  he  repeated;  and  his  voice 
became  fuller  and  recovered  the  rather  sing-song 
rhythm  of  earlier  days,  when  he  used  to  unbosom 
himself  at  great  length  of  all  sorts  of  ironical 
theories  and  mock  philosophy,  very  often  superficial, 
but  always  brilliant.  "  The  old  ideas.  There's 
rank,  for  instance.  I've  been  thinking  about  it 
lately.  I  like  rank.  But  do  you  know  how  I  like 
it?  Just  as  Ernst  loves  an  antique  vase,  even  so  I 
am  sometimes  attracted  by  an  old  title.  I  should 
like  to  be  a  count  or  a  marquis,  not  from  snobbery : 
don't  imagine  that  I  want  to  be  a  count  or  a  marquis 
out  of  snobbery,  for  that's  not  the  idea  at  all.  But 
just  as  Ernst  admires  an  antique  vase,  or  an  old 
book,  or  a  piece  of  brocade,  I  admire  a  count's  or 
marquis'  title;  and  my  title,  besides,  would  be  much 
cleaner  than  the  piece  of  brocade,  which  is  full  of 
microbes.  But,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  run  away 
with  the  idea  that  I  want  to  be  a  count  or  a  marquis 
out  of  snobbery.  You  understand,  don't  you? 
I  should  only  care  for  it  from  the  decorative  and 
traditional  point  of  view.  ...  But  a  modern  title 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     157 

of  jonkheer,1  Gerrit,  dating  back  to  William  I.,2  I 
wouldn't  have  if  you  paid  me !  To  begin  with,  I 
think  jonkheer  an  ugly  word;  and  then  I  think  that 
a  title  of  that  sort  looks  like  a  modern-art  sign- 
board, like  one  of  those  art-nouveau  posters  with 
their  everlasting  stiff,  upright,  squirmy  lines;  and 
those  conventional  poppies  are  positively  revolting 
to  my  mind  because  they  symbolize  to  me  the  cant 
and  hypocrisy  of  our  modern  world.  .  .  .  Yes, 
there's  a  great  deal  of  poetry,  Gerrit,  in  old  ideas. 
We  people  are  crammed  full  of  old  ideas:  we  in- 
herited them;  they're  in  our  blood.  And  we  live 
in  a  society  in  which  the  new  ideas  are  already 
putting  forth  shoots,  the  real,  new  ideas,  the  true, 
the  beautiful  ideas,  the  three  or  four  beautiful  ideas 
that  already  exist.  But  I,  for  my  part,  have  my 
blood  so  full  of  old  ideas  that  I  can't  advance  with 
the  rest.  .  .  .  New  ideas:  look  here,  one  new  idea, 
a  really  beautiful  new  idea,  in  our  time,  is  pity. 
Gerrit,  what  could  be  more  beautiful  and  more  de- 
lightful and  newer  than  pity:  genuine  pity  for  all 
human  wretchedness?  I  feel  it  myself,  even  though 
I  never  leave  my  sofa.  I  feel  it  myself.  But,  even 
as  I  feel  it  and  never  leave  my  sofa,  so  the  whole 
world  feels  the  new  idea  of  pity  .    .    .   and  never 

1  The  lowest  title  of  nobility  in  Holland,  ranking  after  the 
barons  and  hereditary  knights  or  ridden.  The  highest  title  is 
that  of  count.  There  are  no  marquises  or  dukes  in  the  Northern 
Netherlands. 

1  1814. 


158    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

leaves  its  sofa.  .  .  .  Lord,  my  dear  chap,  there's 
blood  sticking  to  everything;  the  world  is  nothing 
but  mean  selfishness  and  hypocrisy;  there's  war, 
injustice  and  all  sorts  of  rottenness;  and  we  know 
it's  there  and  we  condemn  it  and  we  feel  pity  for 
everything  that  is  trampled  underfoot  and  sucked 
dry.  .  .  .  And  what  do  we  do?  Nothing.  I  do  just 
as  little  as  the  great  powers  do.  The  Tsar  does 
nothing;  there's  not  a  government,  not  an  individual 
that  does  a  thing.  You  don't  do  anything  either. 
.  .  .  Meanwhile,  there  is  war,  there  is  injustice, 
not  only  in  South  Africa,  but  everywhere,  Gerrit, 
everywhere:  you've  only  to  go  outside  and  you'll 
come  upon  injustice  in  the  Hoogstraat;  you've  only 
to  go  travelling  and  get  black  with  grime  and  dirt 
.  .  .  and  you'll  find  injustice  everywhere.  .  .  . 
And,  meanwhile,  that  idea  is  stirring  in  this  filthy 
world  of  ours:  the  idea  of  pity.  .  .  .  And,  just  as 
I  am  powerless,  everything  and  everybody  is  power- 
less. .  .  .  Then  am  I  not  right  to  withdraw  from 
the  whole  business  into  my  room  .  .  .  and  to  stay 
on  my  sofa?  ..." 

He  went  on  talking;  and  at  last  Gerrit  got  up, 
glad  that  he  had  been  to  see  Paul  and  that  Paul 
had  talked  as  usual,  long-winded  though  he  might 
have  been.  But  he  was  hardly  gone,  before  Paul 
rose  from  his  sofa.  He  flung  open  the  shutters, 
to  air  the  room  of  Gerrit's  smoke ;  he  rang  the  bell, 
to  have  the  ash  cleared  away;  he  put  the  chairs 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     159 

straight  and  removed  every  trace  of  Gerrit's 
visit: 

11  There,  I  let  myself  be  persuaded  into  talking  1  " 
thought  Paul,  irritably.  "  But  d'you  think  the  chap 
grasped  it  and  valued  it  for  a  moment?  Of  course 
he  didn't:  not  what  I  said  of  the  old  and  not  what 
I  said  of  the  new  ideas !  .  .  .  It's  not  worth  while 
taking  the  trouble  to  be  a  brilliant  talker.  .  .  . 
The  world  is  dirty  and  stupid  .  .  .  and  Gerrit  is 
stupid  also,  with  his  nine  children,  and  dirty,  with 
those  cigars  of  his  .  .  .  and  besides  he's  a  melan- 
choly beggar,  who  has  his  manias  .  .  .  just  as 
Ernst  has  .    .    .  and  I  .   .   .  and  everybody.  .    .    ." 

And  he  flung  himself  angrily  on  his  cushions  and 
read  his  modern  novel,  all  day  long,  without  so 
much  as  stirring.   .    .  M 


CHAPTER  X 

Dorine  also,  Gerrit  remembered,  had  remained  in 
the  Hague;  and  he  looked  her  up  at  her  boarding- 
house,  where  she  occupied  two  small,  comfortless 
rooms.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  days  ...  or  was 
it  weeks?  He  called  twice  without  finding  her  in: 
the  servant  did  not  know  where  she  had  gone,  for 
Miss  van  Lowe  was  nearly  always  out.  At  last, 
Gerrit  caught  her  at  home,  at  twelve  o'clock,  when 
she  was  hurriedly  having  a  makeshift  lunch,  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  with  her  chair  askew,  taking 
nervous  bites  and  timid  sips. 

"  My  dear  Dorine,  where  have  you  been  hiding 
all  this  time?"  asked  Gerrit,  with  boisterous 
geniality. 

She  was  out  of  sorts  at  being  taken  by  surprise: 

"Where  have  I  been  hiding?  Where  have  I 
been  hiding?  I  never  have  a  moment  to  hide  any- 
where.    I'm  far  too  busy  for  that!  " 

44  But  what  have  you  got  to  do?" 

"What  have  I  got  to  do?  The  day  flies  .  .  . 
and  I  never  have  time  to  do  what  I've  got  to  do." 

"  But  what  have  you  got  to  do,  Dorine?  " 

"  My  dear  Gerrit,  I  won't  bore  you  with  a  list 
of  my  doings.     Take  it  from  me  that  my  life  is 

160 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     161 

sometimes  too  busy  and  that  I  never  know  a  second's 
rest.   ..." 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  her  lunch. 

44  I  came  to  take  a  snack  with  you  and  just  to 
have  a  chat.  But  I  see  that  you're  in  a  great  hurry 
and  that  you  haven't  a  great  deal  to  eat,  so  I  don't 
expect  you  want  me.   ..." 

11  Do  you  think  I  sit  down  to  an  elaborate  meal 
all  by  myself?    No,  Gerrit,  I've  no  time  for  that." 

"Have  you  a  mouthful  for  me?" 

44  A  mouthful,  yes.  I'll  ring  and  order  a  couple 
of  eggs  for  you." 

She  rang,  ordered  the  eggs;  and  Gerrit  was  given 
a  plate  on  the  edge  of  the  unlaid  table: 

44  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again,  Sissy,"  said  Gerrit. 
44  I  never  see  you  at  all,  now  that  we  don't  meet 
at  Mamma's." 

44  Well,  you  don't  miss  much." 

44  I  can't  say  you're  very  amiable  to-day.  Have 
you  such  a  thing  as  a  glass  of  beer  for  me?" 

44  No,  I  haven't  any  beer." 

44  What  are  you  drinking  then?" 

44  Water,  as  you  see." 

44  Oh,  do  you  drink  nothing  but  water?  Well, 
then  I'll  have  a  glass  of  water  too.  I'm  not  very 
hungry  either,"  said  Gerrit,  fibbing,  for  he  was 
always  hungry.  44  And,  tell  me,  Dorine :  don't  you 
intend  to  run  down  to  Nunspeet?" 

4  Ye-es,"    said    Dorine,    dubiously.      44 1    ought 


1 62    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

really  to  go  to  Nunspeet.  .  .  .  Mamma's  written 
to  me,  so  has  Adeline  .  .  .  but  I  don't  know  how 
to  fit  it  in." 

44  How  do  you  mean,  to  fit  it  in?  " 

44  Well,  with  the  things  I've  got  to  do  here." 

"  But  what  is  it  you've  got  to  do?  " 

"  Oh,  Gerrit,  nothing  really  that  would  interest 
you !  .  .  .  The  point  is  that  I'm  good  enough  for 
Nunspeet  .  .  .  but  then  of  course  they  only  want 
me  to  be  nurse  to  your  children." 

"  Why,  Dorine !  " 

"  That's  it,  of  course !  "  she  said,  tartly.  "  To 
be  nurse  to  your  children !  " 

44  I  don't  think  you  need  be  afraid  of  that.  Line 
has  the  governess  with  her.  ..." 

44  Well,  then  why  does  everybody  want  to  get  me 
down  to  Nunspeet:  Mamma,  Adeline,  you?  ...  I 
can't  do  anything  for  Ernst,  because  Ernst  upsets 
me  too  much.  ..." 

"  But,  Dorine,  to  give  you  a  change  .  .  .  as 
you're  so  lonely  here.  .    .    ." 

44  Lonely?  .    .    .  Lonely?"  echoed  Dorine. 

She  drank  her  last  sip  of  water  and  said: 

44 1  don't  mind  being  lonely.   ..." 

44  Yes,  I  know  that,  but  still  it's  rather  comfort- 
less." 

44 1  like  being  lonely.  I  think  it  very  cosy  and 
comfortable." 

44  You  think  it  cosy?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     163 

"  Yes." 

"Here,  in  this  bare  room  of  yours?  " 
"  Yes,  here,  in  this  bare  room  of  mine." 
"But,   Dorine,  that's  not  possible!" 
11  But,  good  gracious,  Gerrit,  don't  I  tell  you  that 
it  is!" 

She  stamped  her  foot  angrily  and  gave  him  a 
resentful  glance.  Behind  her  dark  eyes  he  saw  ;i 
whole  world  of  secret  bitterness,  a  fierce  grudge 
which  smouldered  in  the  depths  of  her  soul.  And 
it  suddenly  struck  him  that  she  looked  very  old, 
though  he  knew  that  she  was  only  just  thirty-nine. 
Her  hair,  drawn  into  a  knot  at  the  back,  was  begin- 
ning to  go  grey,  there  were  deep  wrinkles  in  her 
forehead,  now  that  she  was  out  of  temper;  and  the 
lines  of  her  cheeks  and  chin  and  her  sharp,  bitter 
mouth  gave  her  almost  the  look  of  an  old  woman. 
Her  figure  too  appeared  withered  and  shrunken. 
And  he  suddenly  thought  her  so  much  to  be  pitied 
in  her  lonely  life  as  an  unmarried  woman  without 
interests,  over  whose  head  the  years  had  passed 
bringing  none  of  the  sweetness  of  the  changing 
seasons — for  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  never  known 
a  spring,  as  if  she  would  never  know  a  summer,  as 
if  there  would  only  be  the  dreary  autumn  which 
was  now  beginning  to  loom  dimly  before  her,  as  if 
there  had  never  been  anything  for  her  in  life,  as  if 
there  never  would  be  anything  for  her,  never  any- 
thing but  that  weary  passing  of  the  monotonous, 


i64    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

lonely  days,  so  lonely  and  so  monotonous  that  she 
created  for  herself  a  bustle  and  flurry  that  did  not 
exist,  interests  that  were  not  there,  an  activity  which 
she  imagined,  running  in  and  out  of  shop  after  shop, 
for  a  box  of  stationery  or  a  skein  of  thread,  with, 
in  between,  a  casual  charitable  call,  done  in  a  fussy, 
unpractical  fashion — he  suddenly  thought  her  so 
much  to  be  pitied  in  her  loveless,  cheerless  life  that 
he  said: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  would  be  nice  of  you? 
And  sensible?  ...  To  pack  up  all  your  traps,  say 
good-bye  to  your  landlady  below  .  .  .  and  come 
and  live  with  us!  " 

She  stared  at  him  with  angry  eyes  and  pressed 
her  thin  lips  together : 

"  Come  and  live  with  you?"  she  asked,  in  aston- 
ishment.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"  What  I  say.  The  house  is  small,  but  we  can 
manage  with  the  children;  you  would  have  a  tiny 
bedroom:  that's  the  best  I  could  do  for  you.  Line 
is  very  fond  of  you  and  so  are  the  children.  And 
then  you'd  be  living  with  us  and  have  a  jolly  time." 

"  Live  with  you  ?  "  she  repeated. 

And  he  saw  a  shadow  of  hesitation  in  her  eyes, 
for,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  heavenly  warmth 
suddenly  lapped  her  round;  and  she  felt  her  dark, 
angry  eyes  grow  moist,  she  did  not  know  why. 

"  Yes.     Wouldn't  you  think  that  jolly?  " 

"  But  what  put  it  into  your  head,  Gerrit?  " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     165 

"  Because  I  don't  think  it's  jolly  for  you  here." 

"  I'm  all  right  here,  I'm  quite  contented." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  surely  you'd  be  more  com- 
fortable with  us?  " 

She  made  an  effort  to  force  back  the  tears  in  her 
eyes.  It  was  always  so,  with  those  tiresome,  nervous 
tears:  they  came  for  nothing,  for  no  reason  at  all. 
It  was  not  sensitiveness  in  her,  it  was  sheer  miserable 
nervousness,  so  she  herself  thought;  and  she  hated 
herself  for  it,  hated  herself  for  those  tears  which 
sparkled  so  readily.  But  Gerrit's  words  had  sur- 
prised her  and  touched  her,  surprised  and  touched 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  was  ashamed  to  let 
him  see  it  and  so  blazed  out,  purposely,  in  order  to 
hide  herself  behind  that  assumption  of  bitter  resent- 
ment and  ill-temper: 

"  More  comfortable?  More  comfortable  in  your 
house?  I'd  be  a  nursemaid  in  your  house,  that's 
what  I  should  be !  No,  I've  had  enough  in  the  end 
of  living  for  everybody  who  wants  me  and  who  can 
make  use  of  me!  I'm  going  to  live  for  myself  at 
last,  for  myself  and  nobody  else.  ..." 

44  But,  Dorine  ..." 

He  did  not  complete  his  sentence.  He  did  not 
wish  to  be  cruel  and  tell  her  that  she  had  never 
lived  for  anybody  but  herself:  not  because  she  was 
selfish,  for  she  was  not  that  at  heart,  but  because 
she  had  never  found  the  right  path,  along  which 
she  could  have  trudged  valiantly,  urging  her  lonely 


1 66    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

steps  towards  a  point  which  would  have  formed  a 
centre  for  her  small  life,  for  the  small  circle  of 
herself  and  that  which  she  would  have  loved.  Year 
after  year  had  passed  over  her  head,  bringing  none 
of  the  sweetness  of  the  changing  seasons :  the  illusion 
of  spring  she  had  never  known;  the  fierce  heat  of 
summer  she  had  never  known;  kindly  shelter  she 
had  never  known;  nor  had  she  ever  known  aught  of 
blowing  winds  and  raging  storms:  all  that  was 
sensitive  in  her  had  shrivelled  like  flowers  which  no 
sun  has  ever  shone  upon;  what  was  feminine  in  her 
had  withered  like  flowers  which  no  dew  has  watered; 
and  everything  in  her  had  become  soured  and  em- 
bittered into  an  almost  unconscious  exasperation  at 
her  aimless  existence,  at  her  loveless  life,  which  had 
gone  on  for  years  and  years.  Was  it  now  nothing 
but  autumn  in  front  of  her  and  around  her,  like 
twilight  in  her  soul,  like  twilight  around  her 
soul?  .    .    . 

He  stood  up,  she  made  him  feel  sad.  He  went 
away;  and  his  parting  words  were  merely: 

"  No,  Dorine,  you  would  not  be  a  nursemaid  in 
our  house.  If  you  care  to  think  it  over,  do;  and  be 
sure  that  Line  and  I  will  think  it  very  jolly  if  you 
do  come  to  us.  .   .    . " 

And  he  took  his  afternoon  ride,  picked  out  his 
lonely  road.  With  a  horse,  like  that,  it  was  like 
being  with  a  friend.  He  patted  the  animal's  neck; 
and  it  shivered,  like  a  woman  under  a  caressing 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     167 

hand.  He  talked  to  it;  and  it  shook  its  pointed 
ears,  as  though  it  understood,  as  though  it  answered 
with  a  graceful  movement  of  its  neck  and  head. 
And,  while  he  let  the  horse  go  at  a  foot's  pace, 
with  the  reins  held  loose  in  his  hand,  he  thought 
how  lonely  it  had  all  become,  now  that  the  twilight 
was  deepening  around  them.  In  bright  flashes  he 
thought  just  once  more  of  his  childhood,  out  there : 
Buitenzorg;  the  white  palace;  the  delicious  garden, 
unique  of  its  kind  and  world-famous,  with  its 
precious  trees,  its  clustering  palms,  its  giant  ferns, 
its  strange,  huge  giant  creepers  with  stems  as  thick 
as  pythons  slung  from  tree  to  tree.  .  .  .  And, 
behind  it,  the  river  .  .  .  where  he  used  to  play  with 
Karel  and  Constance.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  vivid  it  all 
was!  To  think  of  it  almost  brought  the  tears  to 
his  eyes,  now  that  the  twilight  was  gathering  round 
him  and  these  memories  were  but  the  last  reflection 
of  those  sunny  days  when  they  were  all  children 
together!  ...  It  had  begun  very  slowly,  slowly 
but  irrevocably:  the  gradual  separation  and  drifting 
apart,  the  ties  loosened  until  they  were  all  detached 
.  .  .  now,  just  now,  in  the  sombre  twilight  that 
was  drawing  nigh.  .  .  .  Slowly,  slowly,  with  every 
year  in  which  the  brothers  and  sisters  grew  bigger 
and  older,  in  which  they  developed  from  children 
into  persons  who  themselves  drew  a  circle  around 
them,  their  own  circle  of  marriage,  their  own  circle 
of  children,  of  which  they  themselves  were  now  the 


168    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

centre,  even  as  his  father  and  his  mother  had  been 
in  their  family-circle,  in  their  circle  of  children  and 
even  grandchildren.  .  .  .  Slowly,  slowly  it  had  hap- 
pened, year  by  year,  really  almost  unnoticeably,  that 
all  the  brothers  and  sisters  who  had  been  one  family 
in  the  white  palace  over  there — which  in  that  garden 
yonder,  so  very  far  away  in  miles  and  years,  seemed 
to  him  part  of  the  fairy-tale  of  his  boyhood,  with 
Constance*  fairy  figure  flitting  through  it,  red 
flowers  at  her  temples — that  all  the  brothers  and 
sisters  had  drawn  a  circle  round  about  themselves, 
a  circle  of  their  families  or  of  themselves  alone; 
and,  though  those  circles  for  the  first  few  years  had 
sometimes  intersected  one  another,  slowly,  slowly 
they  had  shifted  farther  and  farther  apart;  and, 
just  as  that  gloomy  twilight  drew  nigh,  they  re- 
treated still  farther.  .  .  .  Had  Mamma  always 
secretly  foreseen  it;  and  was  that  why  she  had  clung 
so  obstinately  to  that  one  evening  a  week,  the 
evening  at  which  formerly  he  had  laughed  and  joked 
with  the  others:  always  that  Sunday  evening  of 
Mamma's,  the  "  family  group,"  that  gathering  at 
regular  intervals,  with  cards  and  cakes,  which  they 
all  sometimes  thought  extremely  boring,  but  never 
neglected,  for  the  sake  of  the  old  mother,  who 
wished  to  keep  the  children  together  ?  Had  Mamma 
always  foreseen  it?  Oh,  it  still  existed,  the  family- 
group,  with  the  cards  and  cakes,  every  Sunday;  but 
was  it  not  really  losing  its  significance  more  and 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     169 

more  .  .  .  because  the  circles  had  shifted  so  very 
far  apart?  .  .  .  The  twilight  was  gathering  around 
them  all,  sombre  and  menacing;  and  he  felt  its 
chilling  influence  even  now  as  he  rode  along  on  that 
warm  summer's  day:  the  twilight  was  deepening 
around  Dorine  and  around  Paul,  growing  darker 
and  darker  with  their  growing  loneliness,  the  loneli- 
ness of  a  lonely  man  and  a  lonely  woman  who  had 
not  sought  or  had  not  found  the  warm  light  for 
their  later  years,  the  still  young  but  yet  later  years 
of  the  small  soul  that  just  exists  and,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  is  for  ever  asking  itself  the  reason 
of  its  small  existence.  .  .  .  The  twilight  was  per- 
haps not  yet  so  dark  around  Adolphine,  for  she  still 
had  her  own  circle;  but  even  that  circle  had  already 
shifted  far  from  the  original  family-circle,  was 
moving  farther  and  farther  away.  .  .  .  And  the 
twilight  had  fallen,  black  as  night,  so  suddenly, 
around  poor  Bertha,  now  that  she  was  dozing  away 
in  a  small  house  in  a  village  where  she  knew  nobody 
and  did  nothing  but  look  out  of  her  window  at  the 
garden,  while  the  roar  of  the  trains  deadened  her 
already  dull  memories.  It  seemed  too  as  if  Bertha's 
circle  had  broken  up,  like  a  ring  of  light  that  breaks 
up  into  sparks  which  die  out  in  the  distance,  now 
that  she  had  no  one  with  her  but  Marianne,  poor 
girl,  pining  away  in  her  unhappy  lot,  the  victim  of 
a  destiny  too  big  for  her  small  soul.  .  .  .  Karel, 
his  brother:  was  Karel  his  brother  still?     Or  had 


i7o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

not  Karel,  with  his  wife,  who  had  never  been 
admitted  to  the  family  as  an  intimate,  also  shifted 
his  circle  far,  far  away  from  the  circle  of  them 
all?  .  .  .  And,  as  for  poor  Ernst,  had  the  twilight 
not  deepened  around  poor  Ernst,  his  gloomy  solitude 
growing  ever  darker,  until  he  had  fallen  ill,  ill  in 
his  soul  and  in  his  senses?  .  .  .  And,  now  that  all 
those  circles  were  shifting  so  far  away  from  one 
another  and  becoming  ever  wider,  what  consolation 
would  there  be  for  Mamma,  around  whom  loneliness 
and  darkness  were  closing,  closing  just  around  her, 
poor  Mamma,  to  whom  the  family  circle  meant  so 
much,  who  had  always  wanted  to  remain  the  centre 
of  the  love  and  warmth  of  all  her  children?  .  .  ,. 
And  it  was  strange  that,  when  he  thought  of  Con- 
stance, her  circle,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  to  be 
moving  closer,  as  though  there  were  a  new  light 
dawning  for  her  and  Addie;  and  strangest  of  all  was 
when  he  thought  of  himself  and  of  his  little  tribe, 
which,  it  was  true,  had  left  him  for  the  moment, 
but  still  belonged  to  him  and  was  always,  always 
round  him  .  .  .  as  if  there  were  no  twilight  there 
at  all  .  .  .  as  if  it  were  always  dawn,  a  radiant 
dawn,  flinging  wide  its  golden  beams.  .  .  .  Oh, 
children  were  everything!  Had  he  not  done  wisely 
to  create  his  golden  dawn?  .  .  .  He  did  not  think 
of  his  wife:  he  thought  of  his  children;  he  was 
a  father  more  than  a  husband.  .  .  .  Had  he  not 
done  well?    Was  it  not  there  that  hope  smiled  upon 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     171 

him,  upon  all  of  them,  upon  poor  Mamma:  upon 
poor  Mamma  who,  at  that  very  moment,  was  sun- 
ning her  lonely  old  age  in  the  light  of  that  golden 
dawn?  .  .  .  Had  he  not  done  wisely?  But  why, 
if  he  had  done  wisely,  must  he  doubt  sometimes 
and  be  astonished  and  even  anxious  about  all  that 
young,  radiant  life  which  he  had  begotten  and  which 
shed  forth  a  warmth  and  light  in  which  he  now 
felt  his  strange  soul  happily  basking,  warmer  and 
lighter  than  the  sunlight  in  which  he  was  riding? 
Why  should  he  doubt  and  be  astonished  and  even 
anxious?  .  .  .  Oh,  he  saw  it,  suddenly:  because, 
later  on,  the  rays  of  that  golden  dawn  also  would 
shine  far  away  from  their  centre  and  that  golden 
radiance  would  gradually  become  dim  and  dark  in 
its  turn !  .  .  .  But,  suppose  it  were  a  law  of  nature, 
suppose  it  were  bound  to  be,  that  all  that  was  united 
at  first  in  sunny  affection  and  sunny  fellowship 
should  scatter  in  all  directions;  suppose  it  were 
bound  to  circle  away  and  fade  into  sombre  twilight; 
suppose  it  were  a  law  of  nature  that  brothers  and 
sisters  should  become  estranged,  as  though  they  had 
not  been  born  of  one  mother  and  begotten  of  one 
father!  Suppose  that  had  to  be!  Then  why  have 
so  many  doubts,  why  feel  astonishment  and  anxiety 
and  why  not  enjoy  the  warmth,  as  long  as  the 
morning  sun  still  shone,  after  the  first  gleams  of 
the  cheerful  dawn?  .  .  .  Oh,  how  he  longed  for 
his  dawn,  his  little  tribe  of  laughing  children !     He 


172    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

would  go  to  them  to-morrow,  to-morrow!  To  see 
them  all  around  him,  to  hold  them  all  in  one  vast 
embrace,  to  toss  them  in  his  arms,  to  let  them  ride 
on  his  back  and  on  his  shoulders,  to  dandle  them  on 
his  knee,  to  romp  with  them  till  they  all  rolled  in 
a  heap,  to  press  his  lips  to  their  soft  childish  skins, 
giving  himself  sheer  ecstasy  in  those  simple  caresses ! 
He  would  go  down  to-morrow,  to-morrow !  .   .   . 

Yes,  the  gloom  might  deepen  around  all  the  rest, 
but  light  was  still  dawning  before  him,  as  it  had 
shone,  long  years  ago,  before  his  father  and 
mother,  when  they  had  all — he  and  his  brothers  and 
sisters — been  children  together  and  their  sunny 
radiance  had  been  their  parents'  dawn  yonder  in 
India,  in  the  grand  white  palace,  in  the  fairy  gar- 
dens. .  .  .  Yes,  light  was  still  dawning  in  front 
of  him  .  .  .  and,  though  later  that  light  would 
surely  circle  away  from  him  also,  though  the  twi- 
light would  gather  around  his  head,  around  his  soul, 
as  it  was  now  beginning  to  gather,  with  such  gloomy 
darkness,  around  his  poor  mother,  there  was  still 
the  present  and  he  had  no  right  to  feel  doubt  or 
anxiety. 

He  rode  back;  and  the  evening  dusked  along  the 
wooded  roads.  But  straight  before  his  eyes  was  a 
whirl  of  golden  dust,  because  he  had  forced  his 
thoughts  to  be  glad  and  sunny:  his  fair-haired  little 
tribe,  at  Nunspeet,  whirled  before  his  eyes.  It 
whirled  all  radiant  light,  straight  before  his  eyes. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     173 

When  he  was  back  in  town,  seated  at  the  officers' 
mess,  where  he  dined  these  days,  not  one  of  them 
noticed  that  he  had  seen  that  deepening  twilight, 
nor  that  he  had  seen  the  first  gleam  of  dawn;  and 
he  was  just  a  big,  yellow-haired  fellow,  a  great, 
burly  officer,  with  a  jovial,  blustering  voice  and 
rough  movements  that  made  his  chair  creak  and  his 
glass  in  constant  danger  of  breaking;  and  all  the 
time  a  stream  of  noisy  oaths  came  from  his  mouth 
and  his  jokes  set  the  whole  table  ringing  with 
laughter.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XI 

Months  had  dragged  by,  when  Gerrit,  riding  out 
with  his  squadron,  had  a  meeting  that  gave  him  a 
shock.  It  was  on  the  Koninginnegracht,  one  dank 
autumn  morning,  dull  and  dark  at  that  early  hour, 
as  if  it  would  not  get  light  all  day;  the  whole 
roadway  was  taken  up  by  the  horses,  whose  hoofs 
clattered  in  rhythmical  trot  over  the  even  cobbles; 
the  maids,  in  their  lilac-print  dresses,  hung  out  of 
the  windows  to  look  at  the  fine  hussars.  A  closed 
cab  came  towards  the  squadron  and  had  to  pull  up 
beside  the  pavement  to  let  the  horses  pass.  And, 
with  a  swift  glance,  Gerrit  saw  through  the  dimmed 
panes  of  the  carriage  the  face  of  a  woman  with 
a  pair  of  laughing  eyes:  two  brown-gold  sparks  of 
laughter,  lasting  scarce  two  or  three  seconds,  those 
two  gleams  of  gay  gold.  The  laughing  eyes  were 
all  that  he  saw  in  the  vague  expanse  of  face,  pale 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cab,  under  the  dark  frame  of 
a  large  hat;  but  that  laughing  glance  gave  him  such 
a  shock  that  he  flushed  purple,  while  his  blood  flew 
to  his  temples  and  set  them  throbbing  as  if  he  had 
taken  a  cocktail.  He  felt  a  stinging  sensation  in 
his  neck;  and  the  thought  flashed  through  him: 
"  I'll  be  hanged  if  that  wasn't  Pauline!  I'll  be 
174 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     175 

hanged  if  that  wasn't  Pauline !     Can  she  be  back 
at  the  Hague?" 

But  he  pulled  himself  together,  settled  himself 
stiffly  and  firmly  in  the  saddle  and  tried  to  forget 
his  shock  and  the  two  brown-gold  sparks  of  those 
laughing  eyes.  Well,  suppose  it  were  she:  what 
about  it?  It  was  all  so  long  ago;  and  did  he  not 
often  come  across  the  live  memories  of  his  past, 
looming  up  suddenly  on  his  path,  just  like  that,  in 
the  street,  and  did  he  not  pass  them  with  hardly 
a  smile  of  reminiscence  lurking  under  his  moustache 
and  just  lingering  in  his  glance?  Suppose  it  were 
she:  what  then?  Was  he,  who  had  brought  all  his 
old  madness  within  respectable,  middle-aged  bounds, 
going  to  let  himself  be  shocked  by  a  pair  of 
laughing  eyes  out  of  tfye  past?  .  .  .  No,  he  felt 
himself  quiet  and  strong,  in  the  soberness  of  his 
later  years.  If  his  blood  went  coursing  through 
hi9  veins  like  that  at  the  glance  of  a  woman,  at  a 
memory  looming  up  on  his  path,  he  couldn't  help 
it.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  all  that  autumn  day — a  day 
which  had  opened  dull  and  dark  and  which  had 
remained  dull  and  dark,  with  its  heavy,  clouded 
sky — was  lighted  for  him  by  the  two  or  three 
seconds'  gay,  golden  gleam  from  those  eyes.  Yes, 
what  eyes  that  girl  Pauline  had  .  .  .  Lord,  what 
a  pair  of  eyes!  Eyes  that  laughed  even  when  her 
mouth  did  not,  eyes  full  of  golden  mockery,  eyes 
which  knew  that  they  sent  him  raving  mad  with 


1 76    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

their  glance,  as  if  he  were  a  brand  which  a  spark 
from  them  set  on  fire!  .  .  .  And  she  knew  it,  she 
knew  well  enough  that  she  sent  him  mad  with  her 
eyes!  .  .  .  Was  she  back  at  the  Hague?  At  the 
time,  she  had  suddenly  gone  to  Paris  and  he  had 
not  seen  her  for  years  .  .  .  for  at  least  twelve 
years.  He  was  twelve  years  older  now;  she  was 
twelve  years  older.  How  rotten,  that  getting  old, 
that  wearing  out  of  your  miserable  carcase,  of  the 
one  body  which  you  got  in  this  world  and  which  you 
took  to  the  grave  with  you  and  which  you  couldn't 
change,  as  you  change  into  a  new  uniform!  .  .  . 
Well,  his  was  still  fit  and  strong;  and  Pauline's  eyes 
laughed  as  they  used  to  do.   .    .    . 

Twelve  years  ?  Come,  he  wouldn't  think  about  it 
any  longer !  If  he  once  started  remembering  every- 
thing that  had  happened  years  and  years  ago,  the 
day  would  be  too  short  for  his  recollections! 

And,  in  the  staidness  of  his  riper  years,  he  forgot 
the  meeting  on  the  Koninginnegracht  and  even 
thought  that  he  might  easily  have  been  mistaken 
and  that  it  wasn't  Pauline  at  all.  .  .  .  He  was  no 
longer  lonely  in  his  house,  now  that  his  wife  and 
the  children  filled  the  home  once  more;  and  he  felt 
that  he  must  always  have  it  like  this  in  future:  the 
warmth  of  the  snug  home  around  him;  that  other- 
wise he  would  feel  unhappy  and  queer  and  lonely, 
as  in  those  months  last  summer.  And  the  first 
Sunday  evening  at  Mamma's  sent  a  cheerful  glow 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     177 

all  through  him;  and  yet  it  seemed  empty  here  and 
there  in  the  once  crowded  drawing-rooms.  For  the 
two  old  aunts  no  longer  came:  Mamma,  it  was  true, 
had  not  held  them  accountable  for  the  upset  which 
they  had  caused  with  their  shrill,  childish  voices  on 
that  most  unfortunate  evening,  when  poor  Con- 
stance had  been  so  excited  as  it  was;  Mamma  had 
forced  herself  always  to  remain  nice  to  them;  but 
gradually  they  had  fallen  into  their  dotage  alto- 
gether and  never  went  out  now,  living  in  their  little 
villa  with  a  nurse;  they  had  become  very  badly- 
behaved  and  fought  and  quarrelled  with  each  other; 
they  slept  in  one  bed  and  refused  each  other  a  fair 
share  of  the  sheets;  and  once  Aunt  Rine  pushed 
Aunt  Tine  on  the  stairs,  so  that  she  fell  down  and 
hurt  her  old  ribs  severely.  So  they  no  longer  came. 
And  it  was  strange,  but  Gerrit  missed  the  queer, 
old  figures  of  those  two  antiquated  spinsters,  who 
used  to  sit,  each  with  a  great  piece  of  crochet-work 
in  her  bony  hands,  on  either  side  of  the  conservatory- 
doors  all  through  the  Sunday  evening,  now  and 
again  hissing  into  each  other's  ears  spiteful  observa- 
tions which  the  children  heard  and  understood  and 
laughed  at;  looking  with  their  greedy  old  eyes, 
sweet-toothed  old  ladies  that  they  were,  at  the  cakes 
and  lemonade;  consuming  them  at  last,  with  gloating 
satisfaction;  then  getting  up  suddenly,  both  at  the 
same  time,  and  going  downstairs,  under  the  careful 
conduct  of  the  little  nieces,  to  the  four-wheeler  with 


178    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  reliable  driver,  who  always  brought  them  safe 
home.  The  Sunday  evenings  were  no  longer  the 
same,  thought  Gerrit,  without  those  two  character- 
istic, traditional  figures,  about  whom  they  all  cracked 
a  lot  of  jokes,  but  who  nevertheless  had  so  long 
retained  something  of  life's  immutability  and  pa- 
thetic monotony  .  .  .  until  suddenly  the  change 
came  and  the  two  figures  disappeared.  .  .  .  They 
would  go  on  living  for  years,  perhaps,  wrangling 
and  quarrelling,  clinging  desperately  to  the  world 
with  their  bony  hands:  for  years,  as  though  death 
couldn't  get  at  them ;  but  they  would  never  sit  there 
again,  one  by  each  of  the  conservatory-doors.  .  .  . 
But  a  great  void  had  been  caused  by  the  dispersal 
of  Bertha's  little  band.  For  Bertha  never  came  to 
the  Hague  now;  and  all  who  had  been  to  see  her 
at  Baarn  were  agreed  that  she  was  becoming  very 
strange  and  sat  in  a  very  strange  way  at  her  window, 
almost  without  moving,  as  if,  after  her  busy,  stirring 
life,  she,  the  society-woman,  had  suddenly,  upon  her 
husband's  death,  felt  that  there  was  no  need  to  do 
anything  more  and  had  let  that  atmosphere  of  list- 
lessness  and  apathy  submerge  her  and  become  the 
element  in  which  she  vegetated.  She  hardly  ever 
spoke,  took  no  interest  in  anything,  just  sat  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  never  going  outside  the 
house ;  and,  though  she  had  the  full  use  of  her  senses, 
she  had  lapsed  into  a  sort  of  staring  torpor,  sub- 
mitting to  the  passing  of  the  years,  the  unnecessary, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     179 

sombre  years  that  would  glide  noiselessly  over  her 
soul,  bringing  with  them  the  dreary  twilight,  un- 
illumined  by  a  ray  of  hope,  in  which  her  soul  would 
sit,  waiting  for  the  coming  darkness.  ...  In  that 
house  of  mourning,  in  her  silent,  passionless  grief, 
she  had  kept  no  one  with  her  but  Marianne,  though 
Marietje  was  to  come  home  later.  The  family  knew 
about  Emilie  and  Henri  now,  for  Emilie,  proud  of 
her  new  life,  had  been  unable  to  hold  her  tongue, 
had  bragged  of  what  they  were  doing  and  how  they 
were  making  money  in  Paris;  and  the  whole  family 
had  been  astounded  and  shocked  at  it.  Adolphine 
and  Cateau  had  made  them  all  swear  never,  what- 
ever they  did,  to  let  out  that  Emilie  painted  fans 
or  that  Henri  had  become  a  circus-clown!  True, 
they  had  not  been  able  to  hide  Emilie's  fans  from 
Mamma  van  Lowe,  because  Emilie  herself  had  pre- 
sented her  grandmother  with  one;  but  that  scandal 
about  Henri  the  old  woman  fortunately  had  not 
heard:  it  might  have  given  her  a  shock  that  would 
have  been  fatal.  .  .  .  Gerrit  knew  that  people  at 
the  Hague  were  incessantly  telling  stories  about 
Emilie  and  Henri  and  he  would  rather  have  told 
the  thing  out,  so  that  people  should  know  the 
truth;  but  the  others,  even  Constance,  implored 
him  to  hold  his  tongue  and  so  he  would  hold  his 
tongue  with  the  rest,  as  if  it  concerned  a  disgraceful 
family-secret.   .    .    . 

Ernst,   it  is  true,  had  never  come  regularly  to 


1 80    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  Sunday  evenings ;  but  none  the  less  his  absence — 
down  at  Nunspeet — cast  a  «sad  shadow.  What  was 
even  sadder  was  that  Aunt  Lot  still  came  with  the 
girls,  but  was  full  of  bitter  lamentation,  saying 
that  things  were  going  altogether  wrong  with  the 
sugar  and  that  these  were  r-r-rotten  times.  And, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  suddenly,  one  Sunday,  Aunt 
came  with  much  emotion  and  tears,  the  girls  more 
resigned,  good,  simple  souls  that  they  were;  and 
Aunt  told  in  a  torrent  of  words  how  they  were 
as  good  as  ruined — Uncle  had  sent  cable  after 
cable  from  Java — as  good  as  ruined:  they  were 
leaving  their  big  house  at  once;  they  already  had 
in  view  a  tiny  little  house  at  Duinoord;  and 
they  would  manage  there  till  better  times  came. 
It  created  great  consternation  in  the  family,  where 
money  never  counted  but  had  always  been  very 
useful;  yet  Gerrit,  in  spite  of  Aunt  Lot's  tragic 
attitude  and  the  tearful  voice  in  which  she 
lamented  her  fate  all  through  the  evening,  admired 
a  certain  keen  practical  sense  in  her;  in  the  girls 
there  was  also  an  unruffled  calm,  a  quiet  determina- 
tion to  accept  the  situation  sensibly,  without  keeping 
up  the  appearance  of  former  luxury,  and  to  retire 
into  poverty  with  a  modest  resignation  that  left 
no  room  for  false  shame.  ...  A  tiny  little  house, 
one  servant:  yes,  Herrit,  but  Aunt  would  ask  him 
to  nassi  all  the  same,  for  there  was  no  living  without 
sambal,  eh,  Herrit?  .    .    .  And  Gerrit  admired  it  all, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     181 

admired  that  practical  notion  of  at  once  cutting  your 
coat  according  to  your  cloth  in  spite  of  the  tragedy 
of  tears  and  gestures  and  exclamations  of  "  Ye-es, 
kassian!  "  l     And  he  said,  speaking  to  Constance: 

"  Do  you  think  that  real  Dutch  people  could  ever 
behave  like  that?  No,  to  begin  with,  they  wouldn't 
trumpet  it  forth;  then  they  would  go  quietly 
abroad;  but  good  old  Aunt  Lot  trumpets  it  forth 
and  started  being  practical  yesterday  and  isn't 
ashamed  to  move  into  a  smaller  house;  and,  as  I 
live,  she's  already  asking  me  to  nassi!  " 

Yes,  that  was  the  good,  old-fashioned  East- 
Indian  way;  the  simple  soul,  the  simple  views  of 
life;  the  real  thing,  without  show;  the  cordial  hospi- 
tality surviving,  even  though  there  was  no  money 
left;  and  all  this  attracted  Gerrit,  for  all  Auntie's 
East-Indian  accent,  for  all  her  look  of  a  Hindu  idol, 
with  the  capacious,  rolling  bosom  and  the  brilliants 
as  big  as  turnips.  .  .  .  And  the  three  girls,  no 
longer  young — why  had  those  good  children  never 
married,  in  "  Gholland  "  ? — so  quiet  and  practical, 
laughing  already  at  the  thought  of  the  one  servant: 
they'd  make  their  own  beds;  but  Alima,  of  course, 
was  remaining — dressed  just  like  a  lady,  stays  and 
all,  splendid! — sharing  prosperity  and  misfortune 
with  her  njonja,*  just  simply,  without  stopping  for 
a  moment  to  think  whether  she  hadn't  better  look 
out  for  a  better  place. 

^h,  dear!  *  Mistress. 


1 82    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Yes,  Constance,  say  what  you  like,  it  does  me 
good,  in  this  cold  Dutch  air  of  ours,  a  glimpse 
like  that  of  the  simple,  warmhearted,  old-Indian 
way!" 

And,  in  spite  of  all,  there  were  still  cards  and 
cakes  on  Sunday  evenings;  but,  though  Mamma 
stuck  to  it,  though  she  was  still  the  centre  of  her 
circle,  though  the  children  left  her  outside  most 
minor  quarrels  and  difficulties,  she  still  seemed  to 
feel  that  something  was  cracking  and  tearing  and 
breaking.  No,  she  could  no  longer  deny  it  to 
herself;  and  her  once  bright  old  face  had  changed, 
had  lost  its  cheerfulness  and  had  come  to  wear, 
with  those  new  wrinkles  round  the  mouth,  a 
melancholy,  moping  look :  the  family  was  a  grandeur 
dechue! 

And  things  were  no  better  when  Constance, 
making  her  voice  as  gentle  and  sympathetic  as  she 
could,  spoke  to  her  about  Addie;  and,  on  one  of 
those  Sunday  evenings,  the  old  woman  said  to  Van 
der  Welcke,  in  a  harsh  voice,  which  was  beginning 
to  tremble  with  the  sound  of  broken  harp-strings : 

"  So  Addie  .  .  .  has  changed  his  mind.  Con- 
stance has  told  me." 

It  had  been  a  great  disappointment  to  Van  der 
Welcke  too,  so  great  that  he  could  not  forgive 
Addie  and  would  hardly  speak  to  him.  And  he  also 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  angrily,  as  if  he  couldn't 
help  it: 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     183 

14  What  am  I  to  say,  Mamma?  Addie  is  such  a 
very  determined  boy.  He  spoke  to  his  mother  at 
Nunspeet  and  his  mother  agrees  with  him.  I 
don't." 

The  old  woman's  head  dropped  to  her  breast  and 
went  nodding  softly  up  and  down. 

11  The  older  we  become,"  she  said,  "  the  more 
disappointment  we  find  in  life.   ..." 

She  looked  up;  there  was  resentment  in  her  eyes. 
She  beckoned  Addie  to  her,  with  that  imperative 
gesture  which  she  sometimes  employed  even  to  the 
oldest  of  her  children. 

The  boy  came: 

"  What  is  it,  Grandmamma?" 

She  looked  at  him;  and  something  within  her  at 
once  grew  softer,  when  she  saw  him  standing  before 
her,  with  a  grave,  gentle  smile  on  his  fair  boyish 
face,  the  face  which  was  at  the  same  time  so  virile 
in  its  strength.  Still,  she  shook  her  grey  head,  as 
though  to  say  that  she  knew  all  about  it;  and  there 
was  reproach  in  her  flickering  eyes. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said.  "  Mamma  has  been 
speaking  to  me,  Addie.  And  Mamma  tells  me  that 
you  have  changed  your  mind  .  .  .  that  you  want 
to  be  a  doctor." 

11  Yes,  Granny." 

"Well,  well  .  .  .  and  Papa  and  Mamma  and 
Grandmamma,  who  would  so  much  have  liked  to  see 
you  make  your  way  in  the  diplomatic  service." 


1 84    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Granny,  really,  I  don't  feel  that  I  have  the  voca- 
tion." 

"And  as  a  doctor?" 

"  As  a  doctor,  yes,  Granny." 

"  Then  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped,  Addie,"  said 
the  old  woman;  and  she  suddenly  broke  down  and 
began  to  sob  quietly. 

Van  der  Welcke  looked  gloomy.  The  boy  looked 
down  upon  them  where  he  stood,  in  front  of  his 
father  and  his  grandmother.  He  liked  the  old 
woman  and  he  adored  his  father  and  had  been  hurt 
by  his  father's  fit  of  sulkiness.  But  he  couldn't  help 
seeing  that  it  was  their  vanity  that  was  wounded; 
and,  without  wishing  to  be  cruel,  he  couldn't  help 
saying,  very  gently: 

"  Granny,  Mamma  understood.  I  should  be  so 
glad,  Granny,  if  you  and  Papa  could  also  under- 
stand. ..." 

But  Van  der  Welcke's  jealousy  of  Constance 
stabbed  ruthlessly  at  his  heart:  he  rose  and  moved 
to  the  card-table. 

"  Mamma  understood,  Addie?  "  the  old  lady  re- 
peated, resentfully.  "  Oh,  Mamma  knows  that  she 
can't  refuse  you  anything,  you  see.  Papa  too;  and 
now  he's  upset,  poor  Papa.  .  .  .  Our  illusions  be- 
come fewer  and  fewer,  Addie,  as  we  grow  older; 
and  therefore  it's  so  terribly  sad,  dear,  when  we 
have  to  lose  the  very  last  of  them.  We  had  all 
placed  our  hopes  in  you,  my  boy." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     185 

44  But,  even  if  I  don't  go  in  for  the  diplomatic 
service,  Granny,  that's  no  reason  why  I   .    .    ." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  hand  almost  angrily, 
imposing  silence  upon  him: 

41  Diplomacy  is  the  finest  profession  in  the  world," 
she  said,  sharply.  44  There's  nothing  above  it.  .  .  . 
It's  just  those  new  ideas,  dear,  which  Granny  can't 
keep  up  with  and  which  make  her  so  sad,  because 
she  doesn't  understand  them.  ..." 

44  Granny,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  crying  like 
this." 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  took  her  hand,  looked 
into  her  eyes.     She  mistook  his  gentleness: 

44  Won't  you  think  it  over,  Addie?"  she  asked, 
softly  and  coaxingly. 

44  No,  Granny,"  he  said,  in  a  calm,  decided  tone. 
44  I  can't  do  that." 

44  You  mean,  you  won't." 

44  I  can't,  I  mustn't,  Granny." 

44  You  mustn't?" 

44  No,  Granny.  Do  try  to  realize,  Granny  dear, 
that  I  mustn't." 

The  old  woman's  head  went  up  and  down,  nod- 
ding bitter  reproaches.  .    .    . 

44  Granny,  may  I  promise  you  to  try  my  hardest 
.  .  .  to  do  you  credit,  one  of  these  days  ...  as 
a  doctor?  " 

She  gave  an  angry,  contemptuous  smile  through 
her  tears.     He  kissed  her  very  tenderly.  .    .    . 


1 86    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Ah,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  how  we  all  drag 
with  us — every  one  of  us — that  burden  of  vanity 
in  our  souls  .  .  .  which  prevents  us  from  living, 
from  really  living/  >   .,  ■." 


CHAPTER  XII 

Yes,  Gerrit  had  quite  forgotten  the  golden  glint  of 
those  two  laughing  eyes  which  he  had  seemed  to 
recognize;  he  had  only  just  reflected,  lightly  and 
vaguely,  that  he  must  have  been  mistaken.  And 
great  was  his  surprise,  a  few  days  later,  when,  on 
his  way  to  the  Witte  after  dinner,  a  woman  came 
up  to  him  near  the  club,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
and,  as  she  passed,  flashed  a  laughing  glance  into  his 
eyes  and  whispered  very  tenderly,  almost  in  his  ear: 

44  Good-evening,  Gerrit!  " 

He  knew  the  voice,  even  as  he  had  known  the 
eyes:  a  drowsy,  deep-throated  note,  with  a  slight 
roll  of  the  44  r's."  Yes,  he  recognized  her:  it  was 
really  Pauline;  she  was  back  at  the  Hague.  After 
twelve  years'  time!  .  .  .  Well,  he  took  no  notice 
of  her,  walked  on,  turned  the  corner  and  reached 
the  Witte  at  once.  He  ran  up  the  steps,  almost 
as  though  fleeing  from  something  outside;  and  his 
face  was  red,  his  temples  throbbed.  He  stayed 
talking  to  his  friends  for  an  hour  or  so,  curious  to 
learn  whether  they  too  had  happened  to  see  Pauline. 
But  the  others — younger  officers  than  himself,  he 
reflected — did  not  know  her;  and  he  did  not  hear 
her  name  mentioned.   .    .    . 

187 


1 88     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

He  went  home  early.  The  impudent  wench, 
to  dare  to  speak  to  him!  He  went  to  bed  early, 
man  of  regular  habits  that  he  had  become  in  the 
course  of  years;  and,  while  Adeline  was  already 
asleep  in  the  other  bed,  he  saw  the  golden  eyes 
laughing,  heard  his  name  murmured  by  that  drowsy, 
provocative  voice,  heard  it  whispered  almost  close 
to  his  ear.  .  .  .  He  fell  asleep  and,  in  his  dreams, 
saw  the  golden  eyes.   .    .    . 

Well,  he  thought  next  morning,  if  he  was  to 
start  dreaming  of  all  the  eyes  into  which  he  had 
looked,  his  sleep  would  be  one  great  firmament  of 
eyes!  And,  as  he  got  up  and  took  his  bath,  he 
threw  the  thing  off  him,  washed  those  eyes  out  of 
his  mind.  .  .  .  Then  he  breakfasted,  quickly,  with 
his  pretty  children,  vigorous  and  fair-haired,  around 
him;  and  then  he  rode  to  the  barracks.  .    .    . 

But,  two  days  later,  walking  back  from  barracks 
with  a  couple  of  officers,  at  six  or  half-past,  he 
came  upon  Pauline  under  the  fading  trees  beside  the 
Alexandersveld.  He  repressed  a  movement  of  im- 
patience and  thought: 

"  Is  she  mad?    Is  she  pursuing  me  deliberately?  " 

But  he  did  not  let  the  others  notice  anything. 
One  of  them  said: 

"A  fine  girl.    Who  is  she?" 

But  none  of  them  knew;  and  they  went  on. 
Gerrit  did  not  look  round. 

The  thing  began  to  get  on  his  nerves.    What  did 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     189 

the  damned  wench  want  to  come  back  to  Holland 
for  and  why  must  she  look  at  him  and  speak  to 
him,  why  must  she  go  walking  past  the  barracks? 
Was  she  mad,  was  she  mad?  .  .  .  He  felt  angry 
and  uneasy.  .  .  .  And,  a  day  or  two  after,  as 
though  he  had  a  presentiment,  he  hung  about  the 
barracks,  so  as  to  go  away  alone,  quite  late. 

He  met  her;  and,  in  the  dim  light  under  the 
fading  trees,  her  eyes  laughed  towards  him  through 
the  distance  like  gold,  with  that  gay,  wicked  glint 
of  mockery. 

44  Damn  it  all!  "  he  cursed. 

And,  resolved  to  take  up  a  firm  attitude,  he 
squared  his  chest,  put  his  shoulders  back,  appar- 
ently wishing  to  fill  the  whole  lane  with  his  manly 
determination  to  force  his  way  through  every 
ambush  and  snare.  But  she  stopped  right  in 
front  of  him  and  said,  in  that  drowsy,  seductive 
voice : 

44  Good-evening,  Gerrit!" 

44  Look  here,  clear  off,  will  you?  And  be  damned 
quick  about  it!  "  said  Gerrit,  angrily. 

44  It's  so  nice,  meeting  you  again !  " 

44  Yes,  but  I  don't  think  it  a  bit  nice,  see?  So  be 
off!* 

And  he  tried  to  walk  on,  broad-chested  and  im- 
posing, the  strong  man  who  would  trample  on  every 
smiling  and  mocking  temptation  that  blocked  his 
way  under  the  fading  trees. 


u 
<( 


190    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

11  Gerrit,  I  must  speak  to  you,"  she  implored. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  speak  to  you,  Gerrit !  "  mur- 
mured the  languorous,  maddening  voice.  "  I  must, 
I  must  speak  to  you.  Not  here,  but  just  .  .  .  just 
inside  the  Woods." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me  about?  " 

"  Only    for    a    second I    can't    tell    you 

here." 

Well,  no,   d'you  see?"   said  Gerrit,   roughly. 

I    don't    want    to    have    anything    to    do    with 

you. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Gerrit.  .  .  .  Please,  Gerrit  .  .  .  only 
for  a  second.   ..." 

And  he  walked  on. 

She  followed  him: 

"Gerrit  ..." 

"  I  say,  if  you  don't  hurry  up  and  clear 
out  .    .    .  !  " 

"  Gerrit,  just  let  me  tell  you  something  ...  let 
me  speak  to  you  for  three  minutes  ...  in  the 
Woods.  ..." 

The  voice  coaxed  him  and  he  saw  that  deep  glint 
of  mockery  in  the  laughing  eyes. 

"  Only  for  three  minutes  .  .  .  and  then  I  sha'n't 
worry  you  any  more  ..." 

"  Well  ...  go  ahead  then !  "  said  Gerrit.  "  You 
go  on.  .  .  .  I'll  follow  you.  .  .  .  But  be  quick  .  .  . 
I've  no  time.  ..." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     191 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 
"  Home." 

"Are  you  married,  Gerrit?" 
11  Yes.    Go  ahead  now." 

II  And  have  you  any  kiddies?  " 
"Yes,  I  have.  .   .   .  A  jo!  .   .   ."1 

II I  expect  they're  charming  kiddies,  Gerrit?" 
Once  again  the  deep  glint  in  those  golden,  mock- 
ing eyes  leapt  out  at  Gerrit  .  .  .  and  then  she  had 
turned,  walked  away  quickly,  gone  down  the  Timor- 
straat,  disappeared  in  the  Woods.  It  was  quite  dark 
there. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  twelve  years,  Gerrit." 
"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me?  .  .  ." 
"  No,  listen,"  she  said,  swiftly,  understanding 
that  she  must  make  the  most  of  this  precious  mo- 
ment. "  Listen.  I've  been  twelve  years  in  Paris, 
Gerrit;  I've  had  a  lot  of  trouble  there,  I  can  tell 
you.  .  .  .  But  a  lot  of  fun  too.  I  was  all  the 
rage :  my  photo  used  to  be  in  the  shop-windows 
between  the  Tsar  and  the  King  of  the  Belgians  and 
under  Otero's.  That  shows,  doesn't  it?  .  .  .  But 
a  lot  of  trouble  too,  Gerrit.  Men  are  beasts,  Gerrit: 
they're  not  alllike  you,  so  kind,  so  nice.  I  often 
used  to  think  of  you.   ..." 

"  Yes,    but    I    don't    care    a    hang    about    all 
this.   ..." 

1  Malay:  forward! 


1 92     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  I  often  thought  of  you,  how  nice  you  were  and 
how  kind,  though  you  often  pretended  to  be  rough 
and  put  on  such  an  angry  voice.  .  .  .  Well,  Gerrit, 
I  had  to  go  back  to  the  Hague — you  see,  it's  too 
long  a  story  to  tell  you — and  now,  Gerrit,  now  I 
want  to  tell  you,  I'm  very  hard  up  ...  I  haven't 
got  a  penny  just  now.  .  .  .  Please,  Gerrit,  can  you 
give  me  fifty  guilders?" 

u  Look  here,  if  you  think  I'm  well  off,  you're 
very  much  mistaken.    I  can't  give  you  anything." 

"  Well,  Gerrit,  couldn't  you  give  me  twenty-five 
guilders?    You'd  be  doing  me  a  good  turn." 

"  I  haven't  got  it." 

"  Oh,  but,  please,  Gerrit,  can't  you  give  me  some- 
thing?" 

Gerrit  fumbled  in  his  pocket: 

"  Here's  two  rixdollars  .  .  .  and  a  ten-guilder 
piece.  That's  all  I've  got.  I'm  not  rich  and  I  don't 
go  about  with  sheaves  of  notes  in  my  pocket." 

He  gave  her  the  fifteen  guilders. 

"Oh,  Gerrit,  thank  you  ever  so  much!  Oh, 
Gerrit,  how  sweet  of  you !  " 

And,  before  he  could  stop  her,  she  had  thrown 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  was  kissing  him  wildly 
on  the  mouth. 

He  almost  flung  her  from  him: 

11  Look  here,  are  you  mad?  " 

"  No,  Gerrit,  but  I  love  you  and  you're  such  a 
dear.    Thank  you,  Gerrit,  thank  you  ever  so  much." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     193 

He  saw  the  golden  eyes  jeering. 

M  And  now  clear  out!  "  said  Gerrit,  shaking  with 
fury,  while  sparks  seemed  to  dazzle  his  eyes.  u  And 
never  speak  to  me  again  and  don't  go  thinking  that 
you'll  get  any  more  money  out  of  me,  for  I  haven't 
got  it.  So  it's  finished:  understand  that.  You  look 
out  for  a  young,  rich  fellow  .  .  .  and  leave  me 
alone.   ..." 

"  Oh,  Gerrit,  they're  all  beasts  ...  all  but  you 
...  all  but  you   ..." 

"  Well,  beast  or  no  beast,"  roared  Gerrit,  "  you 
go  this  way  now  and  I  that,  see?  " 

And  he  released  himself,  panting,  snorting, 
quivering.  He  walked  as  fast  as  he  could;  and, 
when  he  looked  round,  she  was  out  of  sight,  must 
have  gone  up  the  Riouwstraat.  He  breathed  again, 
managed  to  catch  a  tram,  stood  on  the  front  plat- 
form to  get  the  wind  in  his  face  and  cool  his 
throbbing  temples.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  he  was 
thinking: 

44  The  girl's  mad,  to  speak  to  me  ...  to  go 
kissing  me!  ...  I'd  have  done  better  not  to  give 
her  any  money.  .  .  .  Twelve  years!  .  .  .  She  looks 
older,  but  she's  still  a  fine  girl.  .  .  .  She's  put  on 
flesh  and  she  was  painted,  which  she  never  used  to 
be.    But  she's  still  a  fine  girl.  ..." 

Her  kiss  lingered  on  his  mouth,  like  a  burning 
pressure,  as  if  she  had  sealed  his  lips  with  wax,  the 
hot,  melting  wax  of  her  kiss.    And  suddenly  he  had 


i94    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

to  admit  to  himself  that,  for  years  and  years,  for 
twelve  years,  no  one  had  kissed  him  like  that;  and 
the  admission  sent  his  blood  racing  through  his  veins 
and  set  all  sorts  of  memories,  like  swift  spirals, 
swarming  before  his  eyes,  in  curving,  waving  lines, 
between  him  and  the  wet  autumn  street,  down  which 
the  horse-tram  jogged  along,  toiling  slowly  on  its 
rails.  Memories  flashed  before  his  eyes,  in  glowing 
visions  before  him  and  inside  him  and  around  him, 
until  it  was  as  though  he  were  standing  there,  on 
the  platform  of  the  tram-car,  in  a  blaze  of  recol- 
lections which  the  wind  fanned  rather  than  ex- 
tinguished. .  .  .  But  the  tram  was  passing  his 
house;  and  he  jumped  down,  wildly,  almost 
stumbling  over  his  sword,  hampered  by  his  military 
great-coat,  which  blew  between  his  legs.  He  rattled 
with  his  latchkey  against  the  door,  like  a  drunken 
man,  could  not  find  the  keyhole  at  once.  .  .  .  The 
door  of  the  dining-room  was  open,  sending  forth 
a  soft  light  of  domesticity;  the  table  was  laid  for 
dinner.  Gerdy  and  Guy  ran  out  to  meet  him.  Ade- 
line, inside  the  room,  called  out: 

"  Is  that  you,  Gerrit?    How  late  you  are!  " 
44 1  missed  the  tram,"  he  fibbed;  and  he  thrust 
the  two  children  away  from  him,  a  little  roughly. 
"  Wait,  children :  Papa  must  go  upstairs  first  and 
wash  his  hands." 

He  stormed  up  the  stairs,  again  nearly  stumbling. 
The  noise  shook  the  whole  house;  the  door  of  his 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     195 

bedroom  slammed.  He  feverishly  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  matches,  couldn't  find  them;  his  trembling  hands 
groped  all  round  the  room,  knocking  things  over, 
almost  breaking  things;  at  last  he  found  the  box,  lit 
the  gas,  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass.  He  saw  his 
face  red  with  fierce,  raging  blood,  which  glowed 
under  his  cheeks  and  beat  up  towards  his  temples. 
His  eyes  started  from  their  sockets  and  contracted 
to  pin-points.  He  looked  at  his  mouth,  to  see  if  the 
kiss  was  visible  that  still  burnt  on  his  lips  like  a 
hot  seal  of  purple  wax.  His  uniform  felt  too  tight 
for  him  and  he  undressed  himself,  savagely.  He 
washed  his  head  in  a  basin  full  of  water;  he  rubbed 
his  mouth  with  a  handkerchief  till  his  lips  glowed, 
went  on  rubbing  them,  as  if  they  were  dirty.  He 
crunched  the  handkerchief  into  a  ball  and  flung  it 
on  the  ground.  Then  he  quickly  put  on  his  indoor- 
jacket  and  then  .   .   .  then  he  went  downstairs.  .   .   . 

"  How  late  you  are !  "  Adeline  said  again,  very 
gently. 

He  did  not  answer,  made  no  jokes  with  the  chil- 
dren. He  now,  deliberately,  let  Gerdy  kiss  him, 
with  cool  lips;  and  it  was  as  a  cool  flower,  pressed 
flat  on  his  glowing  cheek.  It  calmed  him;  and  he 
suddenly  felt  safe,  in  that  small  room,  under  the 
circle  of  light  from  the  hanging  lamp,  with  in  front 
of  him  the  great  piece  of  beef,  which  he  began  to 
carve,  with  great  art,  and  advised  Alex  to  watch 
how  Papa  carved,  so  that  he  could  do  it  too  when 


i96    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

he  was  older.  He  now  gave  all  his  mind  to  the 
beef,  carved  it  in  clean,  regular  slices,  while  Adeline 
and  the  children  looked  on. 

He   ate  heartily  and,   after  dinner,   fell  into  a 
heavy  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

No,  nobody  saw  it  in  him.  He  could  admit  that  now 
without  hesitation.  Around  him  there  appeared  to 
be — he  became  more  and  more  conscious  of  it — 
an  opaque  sphere,  like  a  materialized  phantasm, 
through  which  no  one  could  see  him,  through  which 
no  one  could  penetrate  and  know  him  as  he  knew 
himself.  This  evening,  as  he  sat  with  Constance, 
Constance  did  not  see  that  he  had  met  Pauline 
yesterday  and  gone  back  with  her  to  her  room.  His 
wife  did  not  notice  it;  Van  der  Welcke  did  not 
notice  it.  There  was  nothing  around  him  but  the 
everyday  circumstances  of  an  after-dinner  chat  in 
Constance'  drawing-room,  in  the  soft,  cosy  light  of 
the  lace-shaded  lamps,  while  the  wind  outside 
blew  from  a  great  distance  and  howled  moaning 
round  the  little  house.  ...  In  his  easy-chair, 
with  the  glass  of  grog  mixed  by  Constance  at  his 
side,  he  was  just  a  big,  burly,  light-haired  fellow  in 
his  mufti;  and  his  movements  were  brisk,  his  parade- 
voice  sounded  loud.  .  .  .  His  wife  was  sitting  there, 
gentle  and  placid,  the  quiet,  resigned  little  mother; 
the  children  were  asleep  at  home.  Oh,  his  children* 
how  he  loved  them  1  .  .  .  Certainly,  all  of  that  ex- 
isted, it  was  no  phantasm,  it  was  most  certainly  the 

197 


198    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

truth;  but  behind  that  truth  lay  hidden  another 
truth;  and  that  was  why  it  seemed  a  phantasm,  his 
outward  life  as  an  officer,  a  husband,  a  father,  while 
the  real  truth  was  what  he  always  kept  to  himself: 
his  strange  gloom;  the  great  worm  that  gnawed  at 
him;  his  hot,  racing  blood;  his  sentimental  and 
melancholy  soul;  that  wriggling  horror  in  his 
marrow;  that  recrudescence  of  sensuality  in  his 
blood.  .  .  .  The  quiet,  kindly  words  fell  softly 
round  the  room,  like  small,  sweet  things  between  a 
brother  and  a  sister  who  still  have  sympathy  and 
affection  for  each  other  amid  the  inevitable  slow 
moving  apart  of  the  family-spheres;  but  he — though 
he  talked,  though  he  was  lively,  though  he  cracked 
jokes — he  saw  Pauline  before  him,  as  he  had  held 
her  in  his  arms  the  day  before.  .  .  .  Heavens,  he 
couldn't  help  it:  why  was  he  built  like  that?  A 
handsome  woman,  standing  before  his  eyes,  drove 
him  crazy!  Well,  for  years,  all  the  years  of  his 
marriage,  he  had  remained  sober  and  sedate,  but 
he  had  gradually  begun  to  feel  that  this  sedateness 
did  not  really  suit  him.  It  was  no  good  his  thinking 
it  rotten;  it  was  no  good  his  telling  himself  that  he 
was  a  husband  and  a  father — the  father  of  such 
jolly  children  too — and  that  he  oughtn't  to  think  of 
those  things,  that  all  that  sort  of  thing  belonged  to 
his  youth,  to  which  he  had  said  good-bye.  It  had 
been  all  very  well  to  say  it.  But  a  thousand  memo- 
ries had  gone  curling  into  the  air  before  his  eyes, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     199 

like  swarming  spirals;  and,  when  he  met  Pauline 
again — by  accident? — he  had  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  her  for  the  next  evening,  in  her  room, 
cursing  himself  as  he  did  so  and  swearing  at  her, 
with  a  torrent  of  rough  words.  .  .  .  No,  nobody 
had  kissed  him  like  that  for  years!  Besides,  he  was 
sentimental.  Didn't  he  himself  know,  damn  it,  what 
a  sentimental  ass  he  was?  Didn't  he  know  that 
sometimes,  when  he  read  a  book  or  saw  a  play, 
when  Mamma  told  him  her  troubles,  as  she  had 
now  got  into  the  habit  of  doing,  when  he  saw  Dorine 
and  felt  sorry  for  her:  didn't  he  himself  know,  damn 
it,  that  he  was  a  sentimental  ass  and  that  he  must 
pull  himself  together  and  not  let  the  tears  come  to 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  And  Pauline,  whether  she  did  or  did 
not  know  how  sentimental  he  was :  he  couldn't  see  as 
far  as  that — not  only  kissed  him  as  no  one  else  did 
and  knew  how  to  drive  him  crazy,  but  she  also 
worked  upon  his  sentimentality.  Was  she  making 
a  fool  of  him,  or  did  she  mean  all  she  said?  He 
had  never  been  able  to  trust  those  eyes  of  hers: 
they  always  retained  a  glint  of  mockery;  but,  when 
she  said  to  him,  "  Men  .  .  .  men  are  all  beasts, 
every  one  of  them,  Gerrit  .  .  .  except  you.  .  .  .. 
■You're  not  .  .  .  you're  so  nice  and  gentle  .  .  . 
however  rough  you  may  be,"  then  she  had 
him  by  his  sentimental  side  and  he  did  not  know  how 
to  shake  her  off.   .    .    . 

11  I   tell  you,   Gerrit,   that's  why  I   was  so  glad 


200    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

to  see  you  again  .    .    .  oh,  I  was  so  glad,  Gerrit !  " 

He  had  cursed  her,  asked  why  she  didn't  go  after 
a  young,  rich  fellow  rather  than  him,  who  was 
neither  young  nor  rich;  but  her  golden  eyes  had 
gleamed  and  she  had  merely  repeated: 

44  Oh,  men  are  all  beasts,  Gerrit  .  .  .  beasts, 
beasts  .    .    .  every  one  of  them !  " 

And — perhaps  that  was  the  stupidest  thing  of 
all — he  had  believed  her,  believed  that  he  was  the 
only  one  whom  she  did  not  think  a  beast;  and, 
when  a  woman  got  hold  of  him  by  his  crazy  side 
and  his  sentimental  side  as  well,  then  he  did  not 
find  it  easy  to  wrench  himself  away:  oh,  he  knew 
himself  well  enough  for  that! 

Not  one  of  them  knew  it,  you  see,  while  he  sat 
talking  so  quietly  with  them,  while  he  sipped  his 
grog  with  enjoyment,  his  legs  stretched  out  wide 
in  front  of  him,  and  while  he  heard  the  raging  wind 
outside  come  howling  up  from  the  distance.  .  .  . 
And  now  Paul  came  in,  rubbing  his  hands:  he  had 
driven  up  in  a  cab,  declaring  that  he  was  too  old 
to  walk  from  the  Houtstraat  to  the  Kerkhoflaan 
in  that  weather  and  through  such  dirty  streets. 
Why  didn't  he  take  the  tram?  Thank  you  for 
nothing:  was  there  ever  such  a  filthy  conveyance  as 
a  tram,  in  wind  and  rain  too?  And  a  volley  of 
sparkling  witticisms  flashed  out  for  a  moment, 
tirades  against  his  dirty  country,  where  it  was  al- 
ways, always  raining;  against  people,   against  the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     201 

whole  world,  all  dirty  alike.  .  .  .  When  he  sat 
down,  he  looked  round,  with  a  glance  that  had  be- 
come a  second  habit,  to  see  that  there  were  no  bits 
of  fluff  on  his  chair.  And  he  at  once  ceased  talking, 
the  battery  of  his  words  exhausted,  sat  still,  not 
thinking  it  worth  while  to  talk,  because  nobody  ap- 
preciated what  he  said.  Gerrit  heard  Constance 
chide  him,  in  her  gentle  voice,  in  a  sisterly  but 
serious  fashion,  because  he  was  growing  so  elderly, 
shutting  himself  up,  giving  way  to  his  mania  for 
cleanliness  and  for  thinking  everything  dirty.  He 
answered  with  a  couple  of  whimsical  sallies.   .    .    . 

Then  Constance  said  that  she  had  asked  Dorine 
also,  but  that  Dorine  did  not  seem  to  be  coming; 
and  that  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  was  too  tired,  because 
she  was  fixing  up  the  new  small  house  with  the  girls. 
And  Gerrit  felt — now  that  Mamma  was  getting  old, 
very  old — how  Constance  was  trying  to  keep  the 
elements  of  the  family  together  in  her  place.  Not 
in  such  a  wide  and  comprehensive  manner  as  Mamma 
used  to  do — and  still  did — but  with  some  measure 
of  sympathy.  Ah,  she  wouldn't  succeed,  thought 
Gerrit!  The  circles  were  not  moving  closer  to- 
gether: each  was  just  himself;  he  was  no  different 
from  the  rest.  Was  he  not  thinking  of  Pauline? 
Had  he  not  his  silent  secret?  Had  not  each  of  them 
perhaps  his  silent  secret,  while  they  sat  talking 
together  with  such  apparent  sympathy?   .    .    . 

Addie   came   in,   after  finishing  his   school-work 


202    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

upstairs;  and  Gerrit  noticed  the  conciliatory  smile 
with  which  he  at  once  went  up  to  his  father,  who 
had  been  sulking  of  late  because  his  boy  had  made 
a  choice  of  which  he  altogether  disapproved.  But 
for  weeks  and  weeks  he  had  seemed  unable  to  resist 
the  conciliatory  smile;  and  Gerrit  had  noticed  that 
it  was  Van  der  Welcke  himself  who  suffered  most 
from  his  sulking,  which  went  on  because  he  did  not 
know  how  to  manage  a  gradual  change  of  attitude, 
while  the  boy's  calm  smile  meant: 

"  Daddie  will  have  to  give  in,  for  what  I  want  is 
only  reasonable.  .    .    ." 

And  Gerrit  enjoyed  looking  at  Addie,  hoping  that 
his  own  boys  would  grow  up  like  that;  but  Paul,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  his  nephew,  flashed  forth  into  chaff, 
a  chaff  which  had  a  speculative  interest  underlying 
it  and  which  the  boy  took  quietly,  looking  at  Paul 
with  his  serious,  blue  eyes,  which  gazed  so  steadily 
out  of  his  fresh,  boyish  face. 

"  Well,  learned  professor  in  ovo,  my  dear  doctor 
in  spe,  how  are  the  patients  ?  Are  they  keeping  you 
busy  just  now?  Has  mankind  increased  in  vitality 
and  primordial  vigour  since  you  entered  the  thera- 
peutic arena?  O  great  healer,  on  whom  are  you 
going  to  try  your  powers  first,  iEsculapius?  On 
members  of  your  family,  I  suppose  ?  Are  you  going 
to  make  us  live  for  ever,  Addie  ?  Well,  you  needn't 
trouble  about  me.  .  .  .  Can't  you  manage  to  make 
the  human  body  work  a  little  more  cleanly  in  future  ? 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     203 

That's  the  thing  before  which  we're  expected  to 
kneel  in  admiration:  the  Creator's  masterpiece,  the 
human  body;  and  what  is  dirtier  than  the  human 
body?  A  nasty  house  of  flesh,  with  our  poor  small 
soul  pining  away  inside  it.  .  .  .  Addie,  when  you 
grow  very  clever  later  on,  just  remove  all  that: 
entrails,  intestines,  the  whole  bag  of  tricks;  and  put 
in  its  place  a  little  silver  machine  which  a  fellow  can 
polish  at  least  ...  if  there  must  be  a  machine  of 
some  sort !  " 

The  boy  never  got  annoyed,  but  stood  in  front 
of  his  uncle  and  put  his  hand  on  Paul's  shoulder 
and  looked  at  him  and  said: 

44  Why  aren't  you  always  so  lively,  Uncle?  " 
"Lively?  Do  you  think  me  lively?  He  thinks 
I'm  lively,  while  I  sit  here  cursing  human  filthiness! 
Is  that  your  diagnosis,  professor?  Well,  you're 
quite  out  of  it,  my  boy!  You'll  never  get  your  ten 
guilders  for  that!  Lively?  Heavens,  boy,  I'm  far 
from  that!  ...  As  long  as  life  remains  as  dirty 
as  it  is,  I  shall  be  as  melancholy  as  melancholy  can 
be.  .  .  .  Cure  me,  if  you  like,  but  first  clean  the 
Augean  stable.  .  .  .  There's  just  one  little  clean 
spot  left  in  our  soul;  but  all  the  rest  is  dirty!  .  .  . 
Tell  me  now:  whom  will  you  start  on?  Couldn't 
you  cure  Uncle  Gerrit?  Give  him  a  better  appetite? 
Sounder  sleep?  A  healthier  complexion?  Teach 
him  to  buck  up  that  big  carcase  of  his  a  bit?  .  .  k.. 
Just  see  how  wasted  he  looks !  ...  .  .. " 


2o4    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

There  was  something  in  Paul's  chaff  that  grated 
on  Gerrit  very  unpleasantly;  but  he  laughed,  as 
though  he  thought  it  the  best  joke  he  had  ever 
heard,  that  Paul  should  be  wishing  him  a  better 
appetite  and  sounder  sleep.  Was  Paul  getting  at 
him?  Did  Paul  see  through  his  sham  strength? 
And  would  Addie  do  so,  later?  .  .  .  No,  nobody 
saw  through  it: .the  centipede  rooted  in  him  unseen 
by  them  all.  .   .   . 

And  he  got  up,  to  mix  himself  another  grog;  but 
he  mixed  it  so  that  it  was  hardly  more  than  hot 
water  and  lemon. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

He  had  never  quite  understood  her,  not  even  in  the 
old  days.  In  the  old  days,  as  a  young  officer,  he 
had  seen  in  her  a  fine  girl,  a  delicious  girl,  of  whom 
he  had  been  madly  enamoured.  He  had  never 
understood  her  eyes,  never  understood  her  soul;  but 
formerly  he  had  not  thought  so  very  much  about 
those  eyes  and  that  soul,  because  in  those  days  he 
didn't  know  much  about  himself  either,  did  not  know 
what  he  knew  now.  In  those  days,  he  only  now 
and  then  had  a  vague  glimpse  of  his  own  latent 
sentimentality:  to-day,  he  knew  that  sentimentality 
to  be  there  most  positively,  as  a  blue  background 
to  his  soul.  And  he  was  so  much  afraid  of  that 
sentimentality,  so  much  afraid  lest  he  should  miss 
the  truth,  the  naked,  mocking  reality  of  that  cour- 
tesan's soul,  so  much  afraid  lest  he  should  make  it 
out  to  be  finer  than  it  really  was,  kinder  above  all 
and  gentler  and  more  tender,  that  he  could  never 
speak  to  her  without  abusing  her  or  swearing  at 
her,  his  voice  as  rough  as  if  he  were  roaring  at  one 
of  his  hussars. 

11  I  mustn't  let  myself  be  put  upon  by  her  .    .    . 
or  by  myself  either,"  he  constantly  reflected. 

«>5 


206    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And  he  kept  on  his  guard.  Add  to  that  a  vague 
resentment,  at  not  having  been  able  to  keep  away 
from  her,  at  having  gone  to  see  her  in  her  room; 
a  vague  resentment  at  the  thought  of  his  home,  of 
his  children,  of  all  that  he  went  back  to  when  he 
left  her  room.  The  way  you  got  used  to  anything, 
he  would  reflect!  Now,  when  he  had  been  to  her, 
he  would  put  his  latchkey  calmly  into  his  front-door, 
without  feeling  his  heart  beating  with  nervousness, 
would  undress  calmly,  would  walk  into  the  room 
where  Adeline  lay  in  bed!  The  way  you  got  used 
to  everything  and  by  degrees  came  to  do  things 
which  at  first  you  thought  rotten!  You  did  it 
because  you  couldn't  very  well  help  it  .  .  .  and  also 
because  your  ideas  about  things,  day  by  day,  as  you 
did  it,  slumbered  away  into  a  feeling  that  you  weren't 
responsible,  that  it  was  no  use  resisting  what  had 
got  such  a  hold  of  you.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  when 
he  was  with  her,  he  always  felt  that  resentment 
keenly:  it  did  not  slumber  away.  ...  At  Pauline's, 
he  had  a  keen  apprehension  of  being  still  more  im- 
posed upon,  of  seeing  kindness  and  charming  ten- 
derness in  that  girl,  whereas  of  course  she  was 
nothing  but  a  courtesan  who  meant  to  get  money 
out  of  him.  And  then,  in  her  small,  shabby  room, 
he  would  roar  at  her  and  ask: 

"  Look  here,  why  can't  you  leave  me  alone?  " 
Her  golden  eyes  gleamed;  and  he  read  a  secret 
mockery  in  them.     No,  mark  you,  he'd  take  jolly 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    207 

good  care  that  his  sentimentality  didn't  make  him 
see  her  as  a  chocolate-box  picture!  You  only  had 
to  look  at  her  eyes ! 

44  But,  Gerrit,"  she  said,  nestling  at  his  feet, 
"I  never  ran  after  you!  I  met  you  by  accident, 
really  by  accident,  I  assure  you.  Don't  you 
remember?  Yes,  once  when  I  was  driving:  that 
was  the  first  time;  then  near  the  Alexander 
Barracks  ..." 

II  But  what  were  you  doing  near  the  barracks, 
damn  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him  coaxingly,  stroked  him  caress- 
ingly : 

44  Oh,  well  ...  I  thought  .   .   .  !  " 
"  There,  you  see!  .    .    .  You  thought  .    .    .  !  " 
44  Yes,  you  won't  believe  me.  .   .   .  Even  towards 
the  end  .   .   .  in  Paris,  Gerrit  ..." 
"Well?" 

II I  used  to  think  of  you  sometimes." 

44  Oh,  rot,  you're  lying!  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  be- 
lieve you?  " 

44  No,  you  don't  believe  me,  but,  Gerrit  .  .  . 
I  assure  you  .  .  .  men  are  beasts  .  .  .  and 
you   ..." 

44  Oh,  yes,  you  tell  everybody  that :  do  you  im- 
agine I  don't  see  through  it?" 

Then  she  laughed  merrily;  and  he  laughed 
too. 

44  I'm  laughing,"  she  said,  44  because  you're  pre- 


208    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

tending  to  be  so  cynical.  .   .   .  Tell  me,  Gerrit,  why 
do  you  pretend  to  be  so  cynical?  " 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you:  why  do  you  do  it?  You're  putting  it 
on,  aren't  you,  on  purpose  ?  " 

"Purpose  be  blowed!  ...  If  you  think  I'm 
going  to  be  taken  in  by  all  your  pretty  speeches! 
...  If  you  come  to  me  with  pretty  speeches,  it's 
because  you  want  money  and  I've  .  .  ..  I've  told 
you,  I  haven't  any.  ..." 

"  But,  Gerrit,  I  don't  ask  you  for  money  .  .  . 
and  I'm  not  getting  any  from  you  either.  ..." 

He  flushed,  a  deep  glow  overspreading  his  red, 
sunburnt  face  and  the  white  neck  on  which  the  tight 
collar  of  his  uniform  had  left  a  plainly-visible  line. 
What  she  said  was  quite  true:  she  asked  for  no 
money  and  he  gave  her  no  money.  He  had  none 
to  give  her. 

"  Now  let  me  tell  you,"  she  said,  nestling  still 
closer  against  his  knees.  "  You  see,  in  Paris,  to- 
wards the  end,  I  got  the  blues  badly.  .  .  .  You 
understand,  Gerrit,  don't  you,  one  has  enough  of 
the  life  sometimes  .  .  .  and  a  fit  like  that  isn't  very 
cheerful?" 

"Oh,  rot!"  he  said,  gruffly.  "And  you,  who 
are  always  laughing!  " 

"  I'm  always  laughing?  " 

"  Yes,  you,  with  those  eyes  of  yours,  those  eyes 
which  are  always  laughing." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     209 

"That's  my  eyes,  Gerrit:  I  can't  help  it  if  they 
laugh." 

44  And  you  want  to  make  me  believe  that  you  get 
fits  of  the  blues?  " 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  " 

11  Very  likely.     But  you're  not  the  sort  ..." 

"To  what?" 

44  To  sit  moping  for  long." 

"  Well,  I  didn't.     I  came  to  Holland." 

44  Weren't  you  doing  well  in  Paris?" 

44  Not  quite  so  well,  perhaps,"  she  said,  hesitating 
between  her  vanity  and  certain  strange  feelings 
which  she  did  not  clearly  realize. 

44  So  that's  why  you  came  to  Holland  1  " 

44  I  might  have  gone  to  London." 

44  To  London?" 

44  And  from  there  to  Berlin." 

"Berlin?" 

44  And  then  to  St.  Petersburg." 

44  Look  here,  what  are  you  talking  about?  " 

44  And  next  to  Constantinople." 

44  Oh,  shut  up!" 

44  And  do  you  know  where  we  finish?" 

44  What  do  you  mean,  finish?  " 

44  At  Singapore.  You  know  that's  the  regular 
tour." 

44  Oh,  well  .  .  .  I've  heard  it;  but  that's  non- 
sense." 

44  So  many  of  us  go  on  that  tour.     It's  not  a 


210    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

circular  tour,   Gerrit.      It  doesn't  bring  you   back 
...  to  Paris." 

"  What  a  queer  way  you  have  of  saying  those 
things !  "  said  Gerrit,  laughing  uncomfortably. 
"  You  were  always  a  strange  girl.  Tell  me,  your 
father  .    .    .  was  a  waiter,  wasn't  he?" 

"  No,  a  gentleman.  My  mother  was  a  laundress 
...  in  Brussels." 

"  And  those  twelve  years  of  yours  in  Paris  ..." 

"Made  me  into  a  Parisian,  you  think?  .  .  . 
Gerrit,  I  longed  for  Holland!  " 

"  I'll  never  believe  that." 

"Yes,  Gerrit,  I  longed, for  Holland." 

"  You're  a  great  liar  .  .  .  with  those  eyes  of 
yours!     I  never  believe  a  word  you  say." 

"  Gerrit  .   .   .  and  for  you !  " 

"What's  that?" 

"  I  longed  for  you." 

"  Yes,  of  course.    Tell  that  to  the  marines." 

"  I  remembered  the  old  days  ..." 

"Oh,  drop  it!" 

"  Don't  you  know,  when  ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  everything.  Stow  all  that, 
you  and  your  recollections!  You've  taken  me  in 
enough,  as  it  is.  Why  don't  you  look  out  for  a 
young,  rich  chap?  " 

"  You're  not  old,  Gerrit." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  old!" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     211 

"  No.      I    am.     I've    grown    older,    haven't    I, 

Gerrit?" 

"  Your  eyes  haven't." 

11  But  the  rest  of  me?" 

"  Yes,  of  course.   .    .    .   You  have  grown  older* 
ii 

44  Gerrit,  I  don't  want  to  get  old.  ...  I  think 
it  terrible  to  get  old.  .  .  .  Am  I  still  pretty 
and  .    .    .  ? " 

44  Yes,  yes,  yes.  ..." 

44  But,  very  soon,  I  shall  ..." 

44  You'll  what?" 

"  I  shall  be  plain  ...  and  old." 

44  Oh,  don't  sit  there  bothering!" 

44  I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Gerrit.    You're  so  .   .   ." 

44  Yes,  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say.  I'm  off 
now.   ..." 

44  Must  you  go?  .  .  .1  say,  Gerrit,  you  have 
children,  haven't  you?  I  expect  they're  charming 
children." 

He  seemed  to  see  mockery  in  the  gleaming  eyes. 

4  You  drop  it  about  my  children,  will  you  ?  " 

44  Mayn't  I  ask  after  them?" 

44  No." 

44  I  saw  them  out  walking  the  other  day." 

44  Shut  up!" 

44  I  thought  them  so  charming." 

He  swore  at  her,  roughly  and  hoarsely: 


212    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Shut  up,  blast  it,  can't  you?  " 

"  Very  well.  .    .    .  Are  you  going?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  was  outside  the  door. 

"  Are  you  cross  with  me  ?  " 

"  No,  but  this  talkee-talkee  bores  me.  That's  not 
what  I  come  to  you  for.  .   .   ." 

"  No,  I  know  you  don't.  .  .  .  But,  still,  you  can't 
mind  my  talking  to  you  sometimes,  Gerrit?  ..." 

"  Very  likely,  but  not  such  twaddle.  And  I  won't 
have  you  mention  my  children." 

"  I  won't  do  it  again.    Good-bye,  Gerrit." 

"  Good-night." 

He  looked  round,  in  the  passage,  and  nodded  to 
her.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  room,  he  saw  her 
standing,  framed  in  the  half-open  doorway;  she 
stood  there,  a  handsome,  slender,  willowy  figure, 
in  a  shimmer  of  dull  gold :  the  light,  the  yellow  tea- 
gown,  the  touches  of  gold  lace  round  the  very  white 
neck,  the  strange  gold  hair  round  the  powdered 
white  face  and,  under  the  sharp  line  of  the  eye- 
brows, the  golden  eyes,  with  a  golden  gleam.  Her 
voice,  all  the  evening,  had  sounded  very  soft  and 
coaxing  in  his  ears,  as  though  crooning  a  plaintive 
song,  of  youth,  of  memories,  of  the  past,  of  longing 
for  her  native  country  .  .  .  and  for  him:  all  un- 
natural and  impossible  things  in  her,  things  which 
he  only  heard  in  her  voice  because  of  his  confounded 
sentimentality,    a    sentimentality    which,    however 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     213 

deeply  it  might  be  hidden  from  everybody  else,  was 
clearly  perceptible  to  himself.  .    .    . 

And,  outside,  he  thought: 

u  I  must  be  careful  with  that  girl.  .  .  .  She  is 
as  dangerous  as  can  be  ...  to  me.  .   .  ..;" 


CHAPTER  XV 

Well,  if  he  treated  it  like  that,  he  thought,  he 
could  reduce  the  danger  to  a  minimum.  He  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  taken  in;  and  the  only 
thing  now  was  to  disentangle  himself,  slowly, 
gradually;  and  he  would  certainly  succeed  in 
this,  for  none  of  them,  not  even  Pauline,  had 
ever  held  him  for  long.  Though  she  had  got  him 
to  come  and  see  her,  though  he  had  gone  back 
once  or  twice,  he  had  shown  her  that  she 
had  no  sort  of  power  over  him  and  that  he 
remained  his  own  master.  His  voice  roared  hers 
down,  so  that  he  did  not  even  hear  the  coaxing, 
brooding  tones;  his  robust  cynicism  was  more  than  a 
match  for  his  sentimental  tendencies;  and  so  her 
only  hold  was  on  his  recrudescent  sensuality,  glow- 
ing with  the  memories  that  had  been  smouldering 
in  his  blood.  But  that  would  run  its  course  in  time ; 
and  meanwhile,  as  he  would  never  really  recapture 
those  old  sensations  after  twelve  years,  the  charm, 
the  enchantment  of  it  would  wear  off  .  .  .  and 
pretty  quickly  too.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  grown  old. 
She  had  not  gone  through  her  twelve  years  in  Paris 
with  impunity.  All  that  former  freshness,  as  of  a 
fruit  into  which  he  used  to  bite,  had  vanished;  he 

214  % 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     215 

could  not  endure  the  musty  smell  of  the  paint  which 
she  smeared  on  her  face:  he  once  roughly  rubbed 
a  towel  over  her  cheeks  till  she  had  grown  angry 
and  locked  herself  in;  and  he  had  to  go  away  and 
apologize  next  time.  And  he  was  struck  above  all 
by  her  timidity  in  revealing  her  body,  her  artfulness 
in  retaining,  even  when  in  his  arms,  those  laces 
and  fripperies  which  were  supposed  to  create  a  filmy 
haze  all  around  her:  a  haze  through  which  he  was 
well  able  to  see  that  she  was  no  longer  the  girl  of 
twelve  years  ago.  .  .  .  And,  when  he  compared  his 
recollections  of  that  time  with  what  she  gave  him 
now,  he  could  not  understand  that  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  caught  like  that  by  her  eyes,  which  had 
remained  the  same,  though  she  now  smeared  black 
stuff  round  them;  he  did  not  understand  how  he  had 
gone  into  the  Woods  with  her;  he  did  not  under- 
stand how  he  had  yielded  to  her  entreaties  that  he 
should  come  to  see  her.  .  .  .  No,  he  would  disen- 
tangle himself  from  this  woman,  from  this  faded 
courtesan,  who  was  complicating  his  life,  his  life 
as  a  respectable  husband  and  father,  especially 
father.  He  would  disentangle  himself.  It  would 
not  be  difficult,  now  that  the  present  gave  him  back 
so  little  of  what  had  glowed  in  his  memory.  .  .  . 
But,  just  because  of  that,  because  it  would  be  so 
easy,  because  the  present  was  such  dead  ashes,  a 
heavy  melancholy  fell  around  him  like  a  curtain  of 
twilight.  .    .    .  Great  Lord,  how  rotten  it  was:  that 


216    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

slow  decay,  that  getting  old,  that  dragging  on  of 
the  days  and  years!  How  rotten  that  you  had  to 
pay  for  everything  that  life  gave  you,  first  with 
your  youth  and  then  with  your  prime,  as  if  your  life 
were  a  bank  on  which  you  drew  bills  of  exchange, 
as  if  your  existence  were  a  capital  on  which  you  lived, 
without  ever  saving  a  farthing,  so  that,  when  you 
died,  you  would  have  squandered  every  little  bit  of 
it.  Lord,  how  rotten!  Not  dying,  which  was  no- 
thing, after  all;  but  just  that  slow  decay,  that  con- 
founded spending  of  your  later  years,  for  which 
you  got  nothing  in  return;  for  you  had  had  every- 
thing already:  your  youth,  your  strength,  your  good 
spirits;  and,  as  the  years  dragged  and  dragged 
along,  you  just  jogged  on  towards  the  cheerless  end; 
and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  look  on  while  every 
day  you  spent  one  more  day  of  your  capital  of  later 
days  and  got  nothing  in  return,  while  nothing  re- 
mained but  your  memory  of  the  youth  which  you 
had  also  squandered.  ...  Lord,  Lord,  how  dark 
it  all  grew  around  you,  when  you  thought  of  such 
rotten  things!  .  .  .  Oh,  of  course,  there  was  one 
streak  of  light:  he  knew  it,  he  saw  it,  saw  the 
golden  dawn,  the  dawn  in  his  own  house,  the  dawn 
of  his  children:  light  still  shone  from  them;  their 
circle  was  still  moving  within  his  circle,  just  for  a 
time,  for  so  long  as  their  shining  sphere  touched  his 
own  sphere  .  .  .  until  later  it  would  circle  away, 
ever  farther  and  farther,  describing  wider  and  wider 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     217 

revolutions,  even  as  every  sphere  rolls  away,  rolls 
away  from  the  centre !  .  .  .  That  was  how  it  would 
be  .  .  .  when  he  had  grown  old,  very  old.  It  was 
not  so  yet:  for  the  present,  the  bright-haired  little 
tribe  was  still  in  its  golden  dawn.  .  .  .  Yes,  for 
its  sake  too  he  would  like  to  disentangle  himself,  to 
disentangle  himself.  The  thing  that  had  never  been 
able  to  hold  him,  would  it  hold  him  in  his  old  age? 
.  .  .  Well,  there  was  no  question  of  old  age  yet, 
even  though  he  was  getting  on  for  fifty.  But  still 
it  wasn't  as  it  used  to  be :  nothing  was  as  it  used  to 
be,  no,  not  even  Pauline  .   .   . 

No,  not  even  Pauline.  When  he  went  to  her  now, 
he  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  telling  her  so,  with 
rough  words,  in  making  her  feel  it  .  .  .  both  in 
order  to  make  himself  appear  rougher  than  he  was 
and  because  of  the  resentment  which  always  kept 
pricking  him  sharply. 

u  I  say,  you're  not  a  bit  like  those  old  photo- 
graphs of  yours  now !  " 

It  gave  her  a  shock  when  he  said  this.  Nothing 
gave  her  such  a  blinding  shock,  as  if  the  shock  had 
plunged  her  into  darkness  and  made  everything  go 
black  and  menacing  as  death. 

She  felt  that  it  was  cruel  of  him  to  throw  it  in 
her  face  like  this;  and  she  couldn't  understand  it 
in  him.  But,  because  her  eyes  were  always  laughing, 
even  now  they  laughed  their  golden  laugh.   .    .    . 

44  Ah,  you  don't  believe  it !   .    .    .  You  just  think 


2i 8     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

you're  exactly  as  you  were,  the  same  young  and 
pretty  girl.  .  .  .  Well,  my  beauty,  you  never  made 
a  greater  mistake  in  your  life !  .  .  .  But  I  see  you 
don't  believe  me,  you  grin  when  I  tell  you,  you 
think  your  charms  are  going  to  live  for  ever. 
.  .  .  Everything  wears,  child.  .  .  .  However,  you 
won't  believe  it:  I  can  see  your  eyes  mocking  me 
now.  ..." 

Indeed,  her  eyes  were  laughing  and  the  smoulder- 
ing spark  of  mockery  seemed  to  leap  into  flame. 
And,  because  he  spoke  like  that,  she  laughed,  a  loud 
laugh  with  a  shrill  note  which  annoyed  him,  in  which 
he  heard  mockery  .  .  .  because,  after  all,  though 
she  no  longer  resembled  her  old  photographs,  she 
had  caught  him  badly. 

"  Just  come  here,"  he  said,  roughly. 

"Why?" 

"  Just  come  here." 

She  went  up  to  him,  trembling. 

He  took  hold  of  her,  a  little  more  roughly  than 
he  intended,  took  her  between  his  knees,  looked  her 
in  the  face: 

"  What  do  you  make  up  for?  "  he  asked. 

11 1  don't  make  up." 

"  Oh,  you  don't,  don't  you?  Do  you  think  I  can't 
see  it?" 

"  No,  I  don't  make  up." 

"Then  what's  that?" 

He  pointed  to  her  cheek. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     219 

"  That's  only  powder,  which  stays  on  because  I 
use  a  face-cream  first." 

44  Oh,  really!    And  isn't  that  making  up?  " 

"  No." 

"And  what's  that?" 

He  pointed  to  her  eyes.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders : 

II  That's  done  with  a  pencil,  just  a  touch.  It's 
nothing.  That's  not  a  make-up.  Make-up  ...  is 
something  quite  different." 

"  Oh,  really!  Well,  I  don't  like  all  that  messing. 
What  do  you  do  it  for?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  dismay;  and  again  the 
blinding  shock  bored  an  endless,  dead-black  per- 
spective before  her  ...  of  death.  But  he  saw 
only  the  laugh  of  her  golden  eyes. 

u  What  do  you  do  it  for?  "  he  repeated.  "  You 
usedn't  to." 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  it  now?" 

She  made  an  effort,  so  as  not  to  cry.  She  laughed, 
shrilly;  and  it  sounded  like  a  jeer,  as  though  she 
were  saying,  jeeringly: 

II I  make  up  my  face,  but  I've  got  you  all  the 
same." 

11  Give  me  a  towel,"  he  said,  roughly. 
M  No,"  she  said,  struggling  and  releasing  herself 
from  his  grip. 

M  Give  me  a  towel." 


220    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  No,  Gerrit,  I  won't,  do  you  hear?  " 

Her  eyes  just  flashed  an  angry  look  of  dark  re- 
proach. But  they  laughed  and  mocked  immediately 
afterwards. 

He  snatched  a  towel  from  the  wash-hand-stand: 

11  Come  here,"  he  said. 

Her  first  impulse  was  a  storm  of  seething  rage, 
a  rage  as  on  the  last  occasion,  when  she  locked 
herself  in  and  he  had  to  go  away.  .  .  .  But  there 
was  something  so  cruel  and  vindictive  in  his  voice, 
in  his  glance,  in  the  abrupt  movements  of  his  great 
body  that  she  grew  frightened  and  came: 

"  Gerrit,"  she  implored,  softly,  timidly. 

11  Come  here.    I  don't  like  all  that  muck.  ..." 

He  had  wetted  the  towel.  He  now  washed  her 
face;  and  he  became  a  little  gentler  in  his  move- 
ments, glance  and  voice  .  .  .  because  she  was 
frightened  and  meek.    He  washed  her  face  all  over : 

"  There,"  he  said.  "  Now  at  least  you're  na- 
tural." 

Something  like  hatred  gripped  at  her  heart,  but 
she  could  not  yield  to  it:  her  nerves  had  become  too 
slack  for  hatred.  Besides,  she  had  always,  always 
been  very  fond  of  him,  just  because  he  was  such 
a  strange  mixture  of  roughness  and  gentleness.  She 
remained  standing  anxiously  in  front  of  him,  with 
her  hands  in  his. 

Like  that,  like  that,  at  any  rate,  she  no  longer 
looked  like  the  picture  on  a  chocolate-box.    He  was 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     221 

safe  now  against  his  sentimentality.  But,  Lord,  how 
old  she  looked!  Her  skin  was  wrinkled,  covered 
with  freckles  and  blotches.  Was  it  possible  that  a 
drop  of  wet  stuff  out  of  a  bottle  and  a  touch  of 
powder  could  cover  all  that?  And  the  golden  eyes 
of  mockery,  how  ghastly  they  looked,  without  the 
shadows  about  the  brows  and  lashes !  .  .  .  And  yet 
she  kept  on  mocking  him.  .  .  .  But  then,  suddenly, 
he  felt  pity,  was  sick  at  having  been  rough,  at  pre- 
tending to  be  rougher  than  he  was.  He  was  always 
like  that,  always  made  that  pretence,  putting  on 
a  blustering  voice,  squaring  his  broad  shoulders, 
banging  his  fist  on  the  table  .  .  .  for  no  reason, 
save  to  be  rough  .  .  .  and  not  sentimental.  And, 
seeking  for  something  to  say  to  her,  he  said,  in  a 
voice  which  she  at  once  recognized,  a  voice  of  pity, 
the  gentleness  now  tempering  the  roughness,  that 
mixture  which  she  had  always  loved  in  him: 

44  Really,  Pauline,  you  look  much  prettier  like 
this.  .    i     « 

But  she  saw  the  dark  vista  opening  out  before  her, 
black  as  night. 

44  You're  much  prettier  now.  You  look  a  fresh 
and  pretty  woman." 

Her  eyes  were  laughing. 

44  You  haven't  the  least  need  to  smear  all  that 
stuff  on  your  face." 

Her  lips  were  laughing  now. 

44  Come  and  give  me  a  kiss.  .    .    .  Come.   .    .    ." 


222    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  felt  her  flesh, 
soft  and  flabby,  as  though  he  were  grasping  wadding 
or  lace,  not  as  though  he  were  grasping  the  woman 
whom  he  remembered  in  his  glowing  memories,  a 
woman  of  warm  marble. 

She  roused  herself,  in  her  desire.  She  strained 
her  muscles,  embraced  him  with  force,  with  all  the 
science  of  passion  which  she  had  acquired  during  the 
years.  They  embraced  each  other  wholly;  and  their 
embrace  was  full  of  despair  for  both  of  them,  as 
though  they  were  both  plunging  with  their  intense 
happiness  into  a  black  abyss,  instead  of  soaring  to 
the  stars.  .    .   . 

She  now  lay  against  him  like  a  corpse.  Never 
had  he  felt  so  full  of  heavy  melancholy  in  his  heavy, 
heavy  soul.  Never  had  his  whole,  whole  life  passed 
before  him  like  that,  suddenly,  in  a  flash:  his  boy- 
hood, Buitenzorg,  the  river,  Constance;  his  young 
years  as  a  subaltern,  his  reckless  period,  the  period 
of  inexhaustible,  gay,  brutal,  young  life;  and,  after 
that  very  youthful  period,  still  many  long  years  of 
youth,  with  Pauline  herself  still  young,  warm 
marble;  and  then  the  sobering  down,  his  marriage 
and  oh,  the  golden  dawn  of  his  children !  ...  He 
was  not  old,  he  was  not  old,  but  everything  had 
arrived.  .  .  .  Nothing,  nothing  more  would  come 
but  the  dragging  past  of  the  monotonous  years; 
and,  with  each  year,  the  bright  circles  would  shift 
farther  and  farther   apart  and  the  gloom  would 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     223 

deepen  around  him.  .   .   .  Never  had  he  felt  so  full 
of  heavy  melancholy  in  his  heavy,  heavy  soul. 

She,  against  him,  lay  like  a  corpse.  He  felt  her 
like  a  bundle  of  down,  of  lace,  soft  and  flabby  as 
a  pillow,  still  in  his  arms.  He  would  have  liked  to 
fling  her  away  from  him,  weary,  sick  of  that  tepid 
flabbiness.  But  he  kept  her  in  his  arms,  made  her 
lie  against  him,  suffered  the  tepid  heap  of  lace  and 
down  on  his  chest.  Her  eyelids  hung  closed,  as 
though  she  would  never  raise  them  again.  Her 
mouth  hung  down,  as  though  she  would  never  laugh 
again.  And  yet  he  continued  to  hold  her  like  that. 
It  was  not  because  of  his  sentimentality,  for  she 
was  anything  but  a  chocolate-box  picture  now,  and 
it  was  not  out  of  a  sudden  recrudescence  of  rough 
sensuality  that  he  now  held  that  flabby  bundle  in 
his  arms :  no,  it  was  from  a  real,  genuine,  but  heavy 
and  melancholy  feeling,  a  feeling  of  pity.  He  had 
been  able  to  wash  the  make-up  from  her  face  with 
a  towel,  but  he  couldn't  fling  her  from  him  now, 
before  she  herself  should  raise  herself  from  his 
arms.  And  she  remained  lying,  like  a  corpse.  God, 
what  a  time  it  lasted !  .  .  .  Still,  he  couldn't  do  it : 
he  continued  to  suffer  her  there,  on  his  heart.  He 
looked  down  at  her  askance,  without  moving; 
and  his  eyes  grew  moist.  .  .  .  Those  confounded 
eyes  of  his,  which  grew  moist!  He  couldn't  help  it: 
they  just  grew  moist.  He  screwed  them  up,  wiped 
them  with  his  free  hand,  before  Pauline  could  see 


224    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

them  moist.  And  he  remained  like  that,  so  long,  so 
long!  ...  At  last  he  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  she 
drew  breath;  he  could  not  go  on:  not  because  of  her 
weight,  but  because  of  her  softness,  that  soft  flabbi- 
ness,  that  stuffiness,  that  crumpled  lace  against  him. 
His  chest  rose  high;  and  she  awoke  from  her 
lethargy.  She  lifted  her  heavy  eyelids,  she  pinched 
her  lips  into  a  smile.  It  was  a  smile  of  utter  de- 
spair. .    .    . 

She  released  herself  from  his  arms,  stood  up; 
and  he  made  ready  to  go. 

11  Gerrit,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"What  is  it,  child ?" 

"  Gerrit,"  she  repeated,  "  you  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  that  I  .  .  .  that  I  met  you  again  .  .  . 
here  .  .  .  that  we  have  seen  each  other  again.  ...  I 
used  to  think  of  you  so  often  ...  in  Paris  .  .  . 
because  I  was  always  ...  a  little  fond  of  you 
.  .  .  because  you  are  so  gentle  and  rough  in  one. 
.  .  .  That's  how  you  are  .  .  .  and  that  was  why 
I  was  fond  of  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  so  nice  to  see 
you  again  .  .  .  after  so  many,  many  years  .  .  . 
those  dirty,  dirty  years!  ...  It  has  made  me  so 
happy,  so  happy!  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Gerrit  .  .  . 
for  everything.    But  I  wanted  to  say  .    .    ." 

"What,  child?" 

11  You  had  better  not  come  back  again.  .  .  . 
You  know,  you  had  bettter  not  come  back.  .  .  .  We 
have  seen  each  other  again  now:  not  often,  perhaps 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     225 

ten  or  twelve  times,  I  can't  remember.  ...  It  was 
such  heavenly,  such  heavenly  happiness  .  .  .  that  I 
forgot  to  count  the  number  of  times.  .  .  .  But  you 
had  better  not  come  back  any  more.   .    .  ..." 

44  And  why  not,  child?  Are  you  angry  ...  be- 
cause I  washed  your  face  with  that  towel?" 

41  No,  Gerrit,  it's  not  that,  I'm  not  angry  about 
that.  .    .    .  I'm  not  angry  at  all.  ..." 

Indeed,  her  eyes  were  laughing.  Then  she  re- 
peated: 

44  But  still  .    .    .  you  had  better  not  come  back." 

44  I  see.    So  you've  had  enough  of  me?  " 

She  gave  a  shrill  laugh: 

44  Yes,"  she  said. 

11  Oh !  And  have  you  found  a  young,  rich  chap, 
as  I  advised  you?  " 

Her  laugh  sounded  still  shriller  and  her  golden 
eyes  were  full  of  mockery. 

44  Yes,"  she  said. 

Under  his  heavy  melancholy,  he  was  angry  and 
jealous: 

44  So  you  don't  want  me  any  more?  " 

44  Want  you?  ...  I  shall  certainly  want  you, 
but  .    .    .  " 

44  But  what?" 

44  It's  better  for  every  reason,  better  not.  You 
mustn't  came  back,  Gerrit." 

44  Very  well." 

44  And  don't  be  angry,  Gerrit." 


226    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  I'm  not  angry.  So  this  evening  was  the  last 
time?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

They  both  looked  at  each  other  and  both  read 
in  each  other's  eyes  the  memory  of  their  last  em- 
brace: the  stimulus  of  despair. 

"  Very  well,"  he  repeated,  more  gently. 

"  Good-bye,  Gerrit." 

"  Good-bye,  child." 

She  kissed  him  and  he  her.  He  was  ready  to  go. 
Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  given 
her  anything  except  on  that  first  evening  in  the 
Woods,  a  ten-guilder  piece  and  two  rixdollars: 

"  Pauline,"  he  said,  "  I  should  like  to  give  you 
something.  I  should  like  to  send  you  something. 
What  may  I  give  you?" 

11 1  don't  mind  having  something  .  .  .  but  then 
you  mustn't  refuse  it  me.  ..." 

"  Unless  it's  impossible.  ..." 

"  If  it's  not  possible  .  .  .  then  I  won't  have  any- 
thing." 

"What  is  it  you'd  like?" 

"  You're  sure  to  have  a  photograph  ...  a  group 
...  of  your  children.  ..." 

"  Do  you  want  that?"  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know;  I'd  like  it." 

"A  photograph  of  my  children?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     227 

"  Yes.  If  you  haven't  one  .  .  .  or  if  you  can't 
give  it  me  .  .  .  then  I  don't  want  anything,  Gerrit. 
And  thank  you,  Gerrit." 

14  I'll  see,"  he  said,  dully. 

He  kissed  her  once  more: 

44  So  good-bye,  Pauline." 

44  Good-bye,  Gerrit." 

She  kissed  him  hurriedly,  almost  drove  him  out 
of  the  room.     It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

Gerrit,  in  the  street  outside,  heaved  a  great  sigh 
of  relief.  Yes,  this  was  all  right:  he  was  rid  of 
her  now.  It  had  not  lasted  very  long;  and  the  best 
part  of  it  was  that  none  of  his  brother-officers,  of 
his  friends  or  of  his  family  had  for  a  moment  sus- 
pected that  connection,  for  a  moment  noticed  that 
the  past,  his  memories,  his  youth  had  loomed  up  be- 
fore him,  haunting  him  and  mocking  him  in  Pauline, 
in  her  body,  in  her  golden  eyes.  It  had  remained  a 
secret;  and  what  might  have  been  a  great  annoyance 
in  his  life  as  husband  and  father  had  been  no  more 
than  a  momentary  and  unsuspected  effort  to  force 
back  what  was  long  over  and  done  with.  It  was 
now  over  and  done  with  for  ever.  Oh,  it  was  the 
first  time  and  the  last:  never  again  would  he  allow 
himself  to  be  entrapped  by  the  haunting  recollections 
of  former  years!  .  .  .  But  how  sad  it  was  to  reflect 
that  all  that  past  was  really  over  and  done  with 
.   .    .  and  that  everything  had  been ! 

During  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  he  went 


228    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

about  with  heavy,  heavy  melancholy  in  his  heavy 
soul.  Nobody  noticed  anything  in  him:  at  the  bar- 
racks he  blustered  as  usual;  at  home  he  romped 
with  the  children;  he  went  with  Adeline  to  take  tea 
at  Constance'  and  laughed  at  the  tirades  of  Paul, 
who  was  daily  becoming  more  and  more  of  an 
elderly  gentleman.  Nobody  noticed  anything  in 
him;  and  he  himself  thought  it  very  strange  that 
the  eyes  of  the  world  never  penetrated  to  the  shud- 
dering soul  deep  down  within  him,  as  though  sicken- 
ing in  his  great  body,  with  its  sham  strength.  Sick: 
was  his  soul  sick?  No,  perhaps  not:  it  was  only 
shrinking  into  itself  under  the  heavy,  heavy  melan- 
choly. Sham  strength:  was  his  body  weak?  No, 
not  his  muscles  .  .  .  but  the  worm  was  crawling 
about  in  his  spine,  the  centipede  was  eating  up  his 
marrow.  .  .  .  And  nobody  in  the  wide  world  saw 
anything — of  the  centipede,  of  the  worm,  of  all  the 
horror  of  his  life — even  as  nobody  had  seen  any- 
thing of  what  had  come  about  during  the  last  few 
weeks  between  himself  and  his  past:  the  last  flare 
up  of  youth,  Pauline.  .  .  .  Nobody  saw  anything. 
Life  itself  seemed  blind.  It  jogged  on  in  the  old, 
plodding  way.  There  were  the  barracks,  always 
the  same:  the  horses,  the  men,  his  brother-officers. 
There  were  his  mother,  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
There  were  his  wife  and  his  children.  ...  He  saw 
himself  reflected  in  the  blind  eyes  of  plodding  life 
as  a  rough,  kindly  fellow,  a  good  officer,  a  big, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    229 

fair-haired  man,  just  a  little  grey,  a  good  sort  to 
his  wife,  a  good  father  to  his  children.  .  .  .  Lord, 
how  good  he  was,  reflected  in  the  blind  eyes  of 
plodding  life!  .  .  .  But  there  was  nothing  good 
about  him  and  he  was  quite  different  from  what  he 
seemed.  He  had  always  been  different  from  what 
he  seemed.    Oh,  idiot  people  1    Oh,  blind,  idiot  life ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

It  was  a  steadily  grey  and  rainy  winter.  A  winter 
without  frost,  but  with  endless,  endless  rains,  with 
a  firmament  of  everlasting  clouds  hanging  over  the 
small,  murky  town,  over  the  flooded  streets,  through 
which  the  gloomy  people  hurried  under  the  little 
roofs  of  their  umbrellas,  clouds  so  preternaturally 
big  and  heavy  that  everything  seemed  to  cower 
beneath  their  menace,  as  though  the  end  of  the 
world  were  slowly  approaching.  Black-grey  were 
those  everlasting  clouds;  and  it  seemed  as  if  they 
cast  the  shadow  of  their  menace  from  the  first  hour 
of  the  day;  and  so  short  were  the  days  that  it  was 
as  though  it  were  eternal  night  and  as  though  the 
sun  had  lost  itself  very  far  away,  circled  from  the 
small  human  world,  circled  very  far  behind  the  im- 
measurable world  of  the  clouds  and  the  endless 
firmaments.  And,  lashing,  ever  lashing,  the  whips 
of  the  rain  beat  down,  wielded  by  the  angry  winds. 
Gloom  and  menace  hung  over  the  shuddering  town 
and  over  the  shuddering  souls  of  the  people.  There 
were  but  few  days  of  light  around  them. 

The  old  grandmother  sat  gloomily  at  her  window, 
nodding  her  head  understandingly  but  reproachfully, 
because  old  age   had  not  come   in  the  nice   and 

230 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    231 

peaceful  way  which  she  had  always,  peacefully, 
hoped.  The  shadows  of  old  age  had  gathered 
around  her  like  a  dark,  dreary  twilight,  were  al- 
ready gathering  closer  and  closer  because  she  saw 
that,  however  hard  she  had  tried,  she  had  not  been 
able  to  keep  around  her  all  that  she  loved.  Was 
the  supreme  sorrow  not  coming  nearer?  .  .  .  Just 
as  the  shadows  were  gathering  around  her,  so  they 
had  already  gathered  around  Bertha,  over  at  Baarn, 
far  away,  too  far  for  her,  an  old  woman,  to  reach 
her;  and,  in  a  sudden  flash  of  clairvoyance,  she 
saw — though  no  one  had  ever  told  her — Bertha 
sitting  at  a  window,  listlessly,  with  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  saw  her  sitting  and  staring,  even  as  she 
herself  stared  and  sat.  In  a  flash  of  clairvoyance 
she  saw  Karel  and  Cateau  and  Adolphine's  little 
tribe  far,  far  away  from  her,  even  though  they  lived 
in  the  same  town  and  came  regularly  on  Sunday 
evenings.  Far  away  from  her  she  saw  Paul  and 
Dorine.  Very  far  away  from  her  she  saw  her  poor 
Ernst,  whom  she  knew  to  be  mad;  and  her  old  head 
nodded  in  understanding  but  yet  in  protest  against 
the  cruelty  of  life,  which  brought  old  age  to  her  in 
such  a  sad  guise  and  made  it  gather  so  darkly  and 
menacingly  around  her  loneliness.  .  .  .  Yes,  there 
was  Constance,  there  was  Gerrit:  she  felt  these  two 
to  be  closest  to  her;  but,  though  they  were  closer, 
it  grew  black  around  her,  black  under  the  black 
skies,   with  the   glimpses   of   light,    the   flashes   of 


232    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

clairvoyance,  in  the  midst  of  them.  .  .  .  She  saw — 
though  no  one  had  told  her — a  pale,  thin  girl,  Mari- 
anne, pining  away  by  Bertha's  side.  .  .  ..  She  saw — ' 
though  no  one  knew  it — Emilie  and  Henri  toiling 
in  Paris,  struggling  with  life,  which  came  towards 
them  hideous  and  horrible,  bringing  with  it  poverty, 
which  they  had  never  known.  She  saw  it  so  clearly 
that  she  almost  felt  like  speaking  of  it.  .  .  .  But, 
because  they  would  not  have  believed  her,  she  re- 
mained silent,  enduring  all  that  gloomy  life  even  as 
the  town  endured  the  black  skies  and  the  lashing  of 
the  rain.  .   .    . 

And  yonder,  far  away,  too  far  for  her,  she  saw 
a  woman,  old  like  herself,  dying.  She  saw  her 
dying  and  by  her  bedside  she  saw  Constance  and  she 
saw  Addie.  She  saw  it  so  clearly,  between  her  eyes 
and  the  rain-streaks,  as  though  flung  upon  the  screen 
of  the  rain,  that  she  felt  like  speaking  of  it,  like 
crying  it  out.  .  .  .  But,  because  they  would  not  have 
believed  her,  she  remained  silent,  enduring  all  that 
gloomy  life  even  as  the  town  endured  the  black 
skies. 

Then  things  grew  dull  around  her  and  she  saw 
nothing  more;  and  the  nodding  head  fell  asleep 
upon  her  breast;  and  she  sat  sleeping,  a  black,  silent 
figure,  while  the  rain  tapped  as  though  with  fingers 
— which  would  not  tap  her  awake — at  the  panes 
of  the  conservatory-window  at  which  she  used  to 
sit.  .   .   .- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     233 

For  hours  she  would  sit  thus  alone  in  the  shadow 
of  her  day  and  the  shadow  of  her  soul;  and,  when 
any  of  her  children  or  friends  called,  they  would 
find  her  in  low  spirits. 

44  Mamma,  don't  you  feel  lonely  like  this?" 
Adolphine  asked,  one  afternoon.  "  We  should  all 
like  to  see  you  take  a  companion." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  irritably: 

"A  companion?    What  for?    Certainly  not." 

44  Or  have  Dorine  to  live  with  you." 

44  Dorine?  Living  with  me?  No,  no,  I  won't 
have  her  in  the  house  with  me.  Why  should 
I?" 

44  You're  so  lonely;  and,  though  you've  had  the 
servants  a  long  time,  somebody  ...  to  sit  with 
you,  you  know   ..." 

44  Somebody  sitting  with  me  all  day  long?  No, 
no.   .    .    ." 

44  We  should  like  to  see  it,  Mamma." 

44  Well,  you  won't  see  it." 

And  the  old  woman  remained  obstinate. 

Another  afternoon,  Adeline  said: 

44  Mamma  dear,  Constance  asked  me  to  tell  you 
that  she  won't  be  able  to  see  you  for  a  day  or 
two." 

44  And  why  not?  What's  the  matter  with  Con- 
stance?" 

44  Nothing,  Mamma  dear,  but  she's  been  sent  for 
to  Driebergen.   ..." 


234    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"To  Driebergen?  ..." 

"  Yes,  dear.  Old  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke  hasn't 
been  quite  so  well  lately.  .  .   ." 

"Is  she  dead?" 

"  No,  no,  Mamma.  .  .  .  She's  only  a  little  un- 
well. ..." 

The  old  woman  nodded  her  head  comprehend- 
ingly.  She  had  already  seen  Constance  standing 
yonder  by  the  dying  woman's  sickbed,  but  she  did 
not  say  so  .  .  .  because  Adeline  would  have  re- 
fused to  believe  it.   .    .    . 

Another  afternoon,  Cateau  said: 

"  Mam-ma  .  .  .  it's  ve-ry  sad,  but  old  Mrs.  Frie- 
se-steijn.  ..." 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  seen  her  ...  for  ever  so  long; 
and.  ..." 

"  Yes.  And  it's  ve-ry  sad,  Mam-ma,  because  she 
was  a  friend  of  yours.  And,  Mam-ma,  peo-ple  are 
saying  that  she's  ill  and  that  she  won't  last  very 
long." 

The  old  woman  nodded  knowingly : 

"  Yes,  I  knew  about  it,"  she  said. 

"Oh?"  said  Cateau,  round-eyed.  "Has  some- 
body told  you?  ..." 

"No,  but  ..." 

The  old  lady  had  seen  her,  had  seen  her  old 
friend  dying;  and  she  nearly  committed  herself, 
nearly  betrayed  herself  to  Cateau. 

"What?"  asked  Cateau. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     235 

"  I  suspected  it,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  When  you 
are  old,  old  people  die  round  you.   .    .    . " 

u  Mam-ma,  we  should  ve-ry  much  like  .    .    ." 

44  What?" 

44  Adolph-ine  would  like  it  .  .  .  and  so  would 
Ka-rel." 

44  What?" 

"If  you  would  take  a  compan-ion  to  live  with 
you." 

44  No,  no,  I  don't  want  a  companion." 

44  Or  Do-rine.     She's  ve-ry  nice  too.  ..." 

44  No,  no.    Not  Dorine  either." 

And  the  old  woman  remained  obstinate.  .  .  . 
The  old  people  were  dying  around  her;  she  was 
constantly  hearing  of  contemporaries  who  had  gone 
before  her.  Her  old  family-doctor  was  dead,  the 
man  who  had  brought  all  her  children  into  the 
world,  in  Java;  now  an  old  friend  was  gone;  the 
next  to  go  would  be  Henri's  old  mother,  who  had 
been  unkind  to  Constance  and  none  the  less  had 
sent  for  Constance  to  come  to  her.  .  .  .  Who  else 
was  gone?  She  couldn't  remember  them  all:  her 
brain  was  sometimes  very  hazy;  and  then  she  forgot 
names  and  people,  just  as  the  old  sisters  always 
forgot  and  muddled  things.  She  did  not  want  to 
muddle  things;  but  she  could  not  help  forgetting. 

44  So  I  sha'n't  see  Constance  for  quite  a  long 
time?"  she  said  to  Cateau. 

44  Con-stance?" 


236    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Yes,  you  said  she  was  going  to  Driebergen." 
"  No,  Mam-ma,  I  never  men-tioned  Con-stance." 
The  old  woman  nodded  her  understanding  nod. 
Nevertheless  she  no  longer  remembered  who  it  was 
that  had  told  her  about  Constance;  but  she  pre- 
ferred not  to  ask.  .    .    . 

And  she  thought  it  over,  for  hours.  .   .   «• 


CHAPTER  XVII 

An  icy  shudder  swept  over  Constance  when  she 
arrived  at  Driebergen  and  saw  the  carriage  waiting 
outside  the  station,  with  the  coachman  and  the 
footman : 

44  How  is  mevrouw?"  she  asked,  as  she  stepped 
in. 

But  she  hardly  heard  the  answer,  although  she 
grasped  it.  She  shuddered,  icy  cold.  She  shivered 
in  her  fur  cloak.  It  had  rained  steadily  for  days 
upon  the  dreary,  wintry  trees,  out  of  a  sky  that 
hung  low  but  tremendously  wide  and  heavy,  as  op- 
pressive as  a  pitiless  darkness.  Drearily  the  wintry 
roads  shot  forward  as  the  carriage  rattled  along 
them.  Drearily,  in  their  bare  gardens,  the  houses 
rose,  very  sadly,  because  they  were  deserted  summer 
dwellings,  in  the  ice-cold  winter  rain. 

The  day  was  almost  black.  It  was  three  o'clock, 
but  it  was  night;  and  the  rain,  grey  over  the  road 
and  grey  over  the  houses  and  gardens,  was  black 
over  the  misty  landscapes  which  could  be  dimly 
descried  through  the  bare  gardens.  The  dreary 
trees  looked  dead  and  lived  only  in  the  despairing 
gestures  of  their  branches  when  a  wind,  howling  up 

237 


238    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

from  the  distance,  blew  through  them  and  moved 
them. 

The  carriage  turned  into  the  bare  front-garden, 
round  the  beds  with  the  straw-shrouded  rose-bushes. 
Constance  had  driven  in  like  this  only  a  few  times 
before,  with  the  careful  coachman  always  describing 
the  same  accurate  curve  round  the  flower-beds:  the 
first  time,  when  she  came  back  from  Brussels,  and 
two  or  three  times  since,  after  the  old  woman  had 
been  to  the  Hague,  on  one  of  Henri's  birthdays. 
And  suddenly  a  strange  presentiment  flashed 
through  the  black  day  right  into  her,  a  presentiment 
that  she  was  destined  very  often,  so  many  times  that 
she  could  not  count  them,  to  drive  with  that  curve 
round  those  beds.  .   .   . 

She  stepped  out  of  the  carriage;  and  the  strange 
presentiment  flashed  into  her  that  she  would  often, 
very  often,  stand  like  that,  waiting  for  that  solemn 
front-door  of  the  great  gloomy,  solemn  villa  to 
open  to  her.  .  .  .  Then  she  walked  in;  and  the 
long  oak  entrance-hall  stretched  before  her  like  a 
strange  indoor  vista,  with  at  the  end  a  dark  door 
that  led  to  .  .  .  she  did  not  quite  know  what.  .  .  . 
And  she  felt  that  she  would  often,  very  often,  go 
through  that  hall  and  stare  at  that  dark  door, 
knowing  full  well  what  it  led  to.  .  .  .  And  it  was 
very  strange  indeed  now,  but  she  imagined  that  she 
had,  unconsciously,  had  this  presentiment  before — 
really  unconsciously,  so  vaguely  that  she  had  not 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     239 

felt  it  yet — from  the  first  time  that  she  had  come 
and  waited  in  this  hall,  sitting  on  the  oak  settle,  with 
her  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  her  boy,  the  grand- 
child whom  she  had  come  to  introduce  to  his  grand- 
parents. .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  gloomy  house  it  was, 
with  that  long  hall  and  that  dark  door  at  the  end 
of  it,  with  those  portraits  and  those  old  engravings, 
only  brightened  by  the  gleam  of  the  Delft  on  the 
old  oak  cabinet!  Oh,  what  a  gloomy  house  it  was 
and  how  strange  was  the  presentiment  that  she 
would  so  often  be  coming  here  now,  that  she  would 
have  to  mingle  some  part  of  herself  with  this 
gloomy  Dutch  domestic  atmosphere!  .  .  .  Shud- 
dering, shivering,  still  in  her  fur  cloak,  she  was 
thrilled  with  a  very  swift  and  fleeting  home-sickness 
for  her  dear,  cosy  house  in  the  Woods,  at  the 
Hague,  and  she  did  not  know  when  she  would  go 
back  to  it  now.  .  .  .  The  old  woman  was  ill; 
Henri  had  gone  first;  Addie  had  followed  him. 
.  .  .  Then  she  had  asked  for  Constance;  and 
Constance  had  taken  the  first  train.   .    .    . 

She  had  asked  Piet  in  the  hall  how  mevrouw  was, 
but  she  had  not  taken  in  his  answer  either.  She 
now  went  up  the  stairs,  which  wound  in  their  ascent 
and  were  quite  dark;  and,  because  the  strange 
presentiment  also  forced  itself  upon  her  on  the 
stairs,  she  resisted  it,  put  it  from  her.  How  strange 
everything  seemed  around  her  and  within  her!  Was 
that  the  approach  of  death,  skulking  along  with  the 


24o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

wind,  as  it  were  tapping  at  the  windows  on  the 
staircase  and  knocking  in  the  heavy  oak  presses  in 
the  hall?  Was  that  the  approach  of  death,  of  the 
death  which  she  already  felt  around  her?  Or  was 
it  only  because  the  day  was  black  and  the  house 
gloomy?  .  .   . 

And  now  everything  seemed  to  make  her  shudder. 
A  dark  door  had  opened,  slowly;  and  she  started; 
and  yet  it  was  simply  her  child,  her  boy,  coming 
out  to  meet  her. 

"  How  is  Grandmamma?  " 

But  again  she  did  not  take  in  the  answer;  and, 
as  though  in  a  shuddering  dream  in  which  she 
already  felt  the  approach  of  death,  she  entered  a 
room.  There  sat  the  old  man ;  and  Henri  sat  beside 
him,  like  a  child,  with  his  hand  in  his  father's  large, 
bony  hand.  She  herself  did  not  hear  what  she  said 
...  to  the  old  man.  She  was  only  conscious  that 
her  voice  sounded  soft  and  sweet,  as  with  a  new 
music,  in  the  gloomy  house.  She  was  only  conscious 
that  she  kissed  the  old  man.  But  she  felt  herself 
growing  strange,  frightened  and  shuddering,  in  the 
dark  room,  in  the  gloomy  house,  with  the  vast,  low, 
heavy  skies  outside.  The  black  rain  rattled  against 
the  panes.  The  old  man  had  taken  her  hand, 
awkwardly;  he  held  only  two  of  her  fingers;  and 
they  trembled,  pinched  in  his  bony  grip.  He  led 
her  in  this  way  to  another  room,  dark  with  the 
curtains  of  the  window  and  the  bed,  lighted  only 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    241 

by  the  reflected  gleam  of  an  old-fashioned  looking- 
glass  wardrobe.  The  black  rain  rattled  against  the 
panes.  Oh,  how  she  felt  the  approach  of  dread 
death,  that  great,  black  death  before  which  small 
people  shudder,  even  though  they  do  not  value  their 
small  lives!  How  she  felt  it  rustling  in  the  rain 
against  the  window,  how  she  felt  the  ghostly 
flapping  of  its  cloak  in  the  shadows  among  the  heavy 
furniture,  how  she  felt  death  reflected  in  the  reflex 
light  of  that  looking-glass !  She  shivered,  in  her  fur 
cloak.  But  in  the  shadow  of  the  bed-curtains  two 
eyes  smiled  at  her  gently  from  out  of  the  suffering 
old  face.   .    .    .  The  old  man  had  gone. 

"Here  I  am,  Mamma.  ..   .    ." 

uIs  that  you?" 

44  Yes." 

44 1  had  to  send  for  you.   ..." 

44 1  thought  it  would  be  too  much  for  you.  .  .  -. 
That's  why  I  let  Henri  and  Addie  come  without 
me.  .    .    . 

44  Are  we  alone?" 

44  Yes,  Mamma." 

44  Tell  me,  you  didn't  stay  away  .  .  .  because 
you  were  angry  .  .  .  because  you  still  bore  a 
grudge?   ..." 

44  Oh,  no !  I  was  not  angry.  I  thought  it  would 
be  too  much  for  you." 

44  Is  that  true?" 

44  Quite  true." 


242    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"The  simple  truth ?" 

"  The  simple  truth." 

"  Yes,  I  can  tell :  you're  not  angry.  But  you 
were  angry.   .    .    ." 

"  Hush,  Mamma,  hush!  " 

"  No,  no,  let  me  speak.  I  sent  for  you  to  speak 
to  you.  .  .  .  There  was  a  time  when  you  were 
angry.  And  we  could  not  talk  together.  Let  us  talk 
now,  for  the  first  and  last  time." 

"Mamma  ..." 

"  There  were  those  long,  long  years,  dear.  The 
years  which  are  now  all  dead.  .  .  .  There  was 
your  suffering  .  .  .  but  there  was  also  our  suffer- 
ing, Father's  .    .    .  and  mine." 

"Yes.  ..." 

"  It  was  a  day  like  to-day,  gloomy  and  black; 
and  it  was  raining.  I  was  restless,  I  had  such  a 
strange  presentiment:  I  had  a  presentiment  .  .  . 
that  Henri  was  dead,  my  child,  my  boy,  in  Rome. 
It  was  a  gloomy  day  .  .  .  seventeen  or  eighteen 
years  ago.  And  in  the  afternoon,  about  this  time — 
it  was  quite  dark,  the  lights  were  not  yet  lit — a  letter 
came :  a  letter  from  Rome  .  .  .  from  Henri.  .  .  . 
I  trembled  ...  I  could  not  find  the  matches,  to 
light  the  gas  .  .  .  and,  when  I  looked  for  them, 
the  letter  dropped  from  my  hands.  ...  I  thought, 
*  He's  writing  to  me  that  he  is  very  ill.  I  shall  hear 
presently  that  he's  dead.'  I  lit  the  gas  .  .  .  and 
read  the  letter.     I  read  not  that  he  was  ill   .    .    . 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     243 

but  that  he  had  to  resign  his  post.  He  wrote  to 
me  about  a  woman  whom  I  did  not  know,  he  wrote 
to  me  about  you,  dear.  I  breathed  again,  I  thought 
to  myself,  *  He  is  not  dead,  I  have  not  lost  my  son.' 
But  Father  thought  differently:  he  said,  'Henri  is 
dead,  we  have  lost  our  son.'  Then  I  knew  that  my 
presentiment  was  right,  that  he  was  dead.  .  .  .  He 
was  dead  .  .  .  and  he  stayed  dead  for  years  and 
years.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  longed  for  him  to  come  to 
life  again!  Oh,  how  I  kept  on  thinking  of  my 
child!  .  .  .  But  year  followed  upon  year;  and  he 
remained  dead.  .  .  .  Then  by  degrees  I  began  to 
feel  that  it  would  not  always  be  like  that,  that 
things  would  be  a  little  brighter  one  day,  that  he 
would  come  back  out  of  that  distant  death.  .  .  . 
He  came  back;  I  had  my  boy  back.  ...  I  saw 
you  .  .  .  for  the  first  time.  Long  dead  years  lay 
between  us;  and,  when  I  wished  to  embrace  you,  I 
felt  that  I  could  not,  that  I  did  not  reach  you.  My 
words  did  not  reach  you.  They  remained  lying  be- 
tween us,  they  fell  between  us  like  hard,  round 
things.  ...  I  knew  then  that  you  had  suffered 
much  and  also  that  for  long,  long  years  you  had 
been  full  of  grief  and  resentment  .  .  .  grief  and 
resentment.  .  .  .  You  brought  us  your  child:  you 
brought  him  grudgingly.  .  .  .  Hush,  don't  cry, 
don't  cry:  it  couldn't  be  helped.  There  was  bound 
to  be  that  feeling,  that  grudge,  inside  you  .  .  .  oh, 
I  knew  how  it  rankled!     People  are  always  like 


244    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

that:  they  never  understand  each  other  as  long  as 
there  is  no  love;  and,  when  there  is  no  love  and  no 
understanding,  there  is  bitterness  .  .  .  oh,  and 
often  hatred!  .  .  .  No,  it  was  not  hatred  yet,  it 
was  bitterness:  I  knew  it.  Don't  cry:  the  bitterness 
couldn't  be  helped.  We  did  not  reach  each  other 
across  that  bitterness.  .  .  .  Also  you  were  young 
still,  dear,  and  it  was  /  who  had  to  go  to  you  on 
Henri's  birthday  .  .  .  and  yet  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  was  any  wrong  on  my  side.  Tell  me, 
was  there  any  wrong  on  my  side  ?  Was  it  not  your 
bitter,  implacable  youth  that  refused  the  reconcilia- 
tion? .  .  .  Hush,  don't  cry:  reconciliation  always 
comes,  sooner  or  later;  sooner  or  later,  all  bitter- 
ness melts  away  ...  if  not  here  .  .  .  then  there. 
.  .  .  But  with  you  and  me,  dear,  it  is  here.  With 
you  and  me  it  is  here.  I  am  certain  that  you  gradu- 
ally felt  the  bitter  grudge  melting  away  in  you, 
because  you  learnt  to  understand  .  .  .  learnt  to 
understand  that  old  people  have  different  ideas  from 
young  people;  you  learnt  to  understand  their  ideas, 
the  ideas  of  the  older  people,  folk  before  your  time, 
old-fashioned  folk,  my  dear.  You  learnt  to  under- 
stand them;  and  your  soul  became  more  gently  dis- 
posed towards  them  .  .  .  and  you  said  to  yourself, 
1  I  understand  them:  they  could  not  be  any  different.' 
You  can  even  understand,  can't  you,  dear,  that  the 
old  man  has  not  yet,  has  not  even  now  forgiven  and 
forgotten  as  completely  as  I  forgave  and  forgot, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     245 

long,  long  ago?  I  am  right  about  that,  am  I  not? 
You  must  even  learn  to  understand  .  .  .  that  he 
will  never  forgive  and  forget — hush,  child,  don't 
cry! — you  must  learn  to  understand  that;  you  do 
understand  it.  .  .  .  We  must  understand  that  to- 
gether, however  much  we  may  regret  it,  but  we  will 
not  tell  anybody  and  we  will  both  of  us  forgive 
him,  dear,  for  now  and  for  the  time  to  come;  for, 
if  he  can't  do  otherwise,  then  he  is  not  to  blame. 
.  .  .  And,  once  we  are  there  .  .  .  when  we  meet 
again  ...  oh,  what  will  all  the  old  bitterness  and 
all  the  old  suffering  amount  to?  Nothing!  There, 
all  the  old  bitterness  and  the  old  suffering  are  lost 
in  love.  Then  Father  too  will  no  longer  be  bitter. 
.  .  .  That's  why  I  sent  for  you,  you  see:  to  tell 
you  all  this;  because  of  the  words  which  I  could 
not  keep  in,  because  I  longed  to  say  to  you,  '  My 
dear  child,  you  have  suffered  .  .  .  but  we  have 
suffered  too!  My  dear  child,  I  ...  I  want  to 
forgive  you,  now,  with  my  last  kiss.  But  let  my 
forgiveness  count  as  two;  and  do  you,  my  dear 
child — it  is  my  last  request — forgive  the  old  man 
also  .  .  .  now  and  always  .  .  .  always.  .  .  ." 
The  room  was  quite  dark.  The  rain  clattered  in 
the  darkness  against  the  window.  Constance  had 
dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed;  she  was 
sobbing  quietly,  her  tears  falling  upon  the  old 
woman's  hand.  And  there  was  a  long  silence,  inter- 
rupted by  nothing  but  the  clatter  of  the  rain  and  the 


246    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

soft,  heaving  sobs.  The  dark  room  was  full  of 
the  past,  full  of  all  the  things  which  the  old  woman's 
words  had  brought  to  life  out  of  the  dead  years. 
But  through  that  past  the  dying  woman  saw  the 
morrow  breaking,  as  in  a  radiant  dawn.  She  saw 
it  breaking  in  radiance  and  she  said : 

"  Tell  me  that  you  forgive  him  .  .  .  now  .  .  . 
and  always  .    .    .   always." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mamma  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  now  and 
always." 

"  For  he  will  never  forgive,  he  will  never  for- 
give." 

"  No,  no  .  .  .  but  I  forgive  him,  I  forgive 
him." 

"  Even  if  he  never  forgives?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  .    .    .  even  if  he  never  forgives !  " 

"  For  he  will  never  forgive,  he  will  never  for- 
give." 

"No  .    .    .  but  I  forgive  him  ..." 

"And  I,  dear  ..." 

"  You  forgive  me  .    .    .  you  forgive  me !  " 

"  Yes,  I  forgive  you  .  .  .  everything.  From 
first  to  last.     Your  bitterness  .    .    ." 

"Oh,  I  have  long  ceased  to  be  bitter!" 

"  Yes,  I  know  that  you  had  learnt  to  understand. 
.  .  .  We  could  have  become  very  fond  of  each 
other,  if  .    .    ." 

"Yes,  if  .    .    ." 

"  But  it  was  not  to  be.     Let  us  become  fond  of 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     247 

each  other  now.  Love  me,  Constance,  in  your 
memory  .    .    ." 

"Yes   .    .    ." 

"Just  as  I  shall  continue  to  love  you.  There  1 
Just  because  we  suffered  through  each  other  in  this 
life,  we  shall  now  love  each  other." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!" 

"  Kiss  me,  my  dear.  And  .  .  .  and  forgive  the 
old  man." 

"Yes  .    .    ." 

"Even  if  he  .  ,    ." 

"Yes,  oh  yes!  .    .   ." 

"  Never  forgives.  For  he  will  never,  he  will 
never  forgive !  " 

"I  forgive  him,  I  forgive  him!" 

"Then  all  is  well.  Let  him  come  in  now:  him 
.  .  .  and  my  child,  my  son,  Henri  .  .  .  and  him 
...  the  child  .    .    .   our  child.   ..." 

Constance  rose  from  her  knees;  she  stumbled, 
sobbing,  across  the  dark  room.  She  groped  for  the 
door,  opened  it:  the  light  of  the  lamps  streamed  in. 

44  Mamma  is  asking  for  you,"  she  stammered 
through  her  tears.  "  For  you  .  .  .  and  Henri 
.    .    .  and  Addie.   ..." 

Death  entered  the  room  with  them.   ..  ,.    . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Constance  and  Henri  returned  to  the  Hague  a 
week  after  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke's  funeral.  Con- 
stance went  straight  to  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  leave  me  alone  again  so  long!  " 
Mrs.  van  Lowe  complained.  "  I  can't  do  without 
you  for  so  long.  It's  so  dark,  so  gloomy  when 
you're  not  here,  my  Connie !  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  they 
all  came  to  see  me  regularly.  But  they  are  not  like 
you,  dear.  It  seems  they  no  longer  understand  me. 
And,  when  they're  gone,  I  sit  here  feeling  so  lonely, 
so  lonely!  .  .  .  They're  now  all  bothering  me, 
wanting  me  to  take  a  companion,  or  to  have  Dorine 
to  live  with  me  .  .  .  but  I  worit  have  any  one 
here.  It's  such  a  trouble.  An  extra  person  in  the 
house  means  such  a  lot  of  trouble.  I  can't  see  to 
everything  as  I  used  to.  I  just  sit  here  at  my 
window.  ...  So  the  old  lady,  down  there,  is 
dead?  People  are  dying  every  day.  I  can't  under- 
stand why  I  need  remain.  I  am  no  use  to  anybody 
now.  I  just  sit  here,  giving  all  of  you  trouble: 
you  all  worry  about  me  .  .  .  you  all  have  to  come 
regularly  to  see  how  I  am.  I  can't  understand  why 
I  need  go  on  living.     It  would  be  much  better  if  I 

248 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     249 

just  died.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  more  to  come  for 
me.  I've  no  illusions  left.  Not  one.  Even  your 
boy,  Connie:  what  an  idea,  to  want  to  be  a  doctor! 
How  do  we  know  if  he's  suited  for  it?  .  .  .  It's 
a  good  thing  that  you're  back.  I  couldn't  do  without 
you.  ...  Is  the  old  man  over  there  going  to  re- 
main all  alone,  in  that  big  house  .  .  .  just  as  I 
remained  all  alone  here?" 

44  No,  Mamma,  he  won't  be  alone.  There's  a 
cousin  coming  to  live  with  him:  you  know,  old 
Freule  '  van  der  Welcke.  ..." 

M  No,  I  don't  remember.  I  often  muddle  people 
and  names." 

44  Cousin  Betsy  van  der  Welcke.  ..." 

44  No,  I  don't  remember.   ..." 

11  She's  coming  to  live  with  the  old  man.  We 
would  have  liked  him  to  have  had  a  companion  to 
keep  house  for  him  .  .  .  because  Cousin  Betsy  her- 
self is  so  old." 

44  A  companion,  a  companion :  you  want  every- 
body to  have  a  companion.  So  the  old  man  will 
be  all  alone.   ..." 

44  No,  Mamma,  the  old  cousin's  coming." 

44  Which  old  cousin?" 

44  Cousin  Betsy  van  der  Welcke." 

44  Who?" 

44  Cousin  Betsy,  Mamma." 

1  The  title  borne  by  the  unmarried  daughters  of  the  Dutch 
noblemen. 


250    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Oh,  yes,  Cousin  Betsy  .  .  .  and  a  com- 
panion? ..." 

"No,  not  a  companion.  ..." 

"  Well,  then  he'll  be  well  looked  after  .  .  .  with 
Cousin  Betsy  and  a  companion.  Better  than  I.  I'm 
here  all  by  myself." 

"  But  that's  not  right.  You  must  have  some  one 
with  you." 

"  No  companions  for  me,  thank  you !  " 

"Or  Dorine  ..." 

"  So  you're  beginning  with  Dorine  too !  No,  I 
won't  have  Dorine.  She's  too  fidgety  and  restless 
for  me."  , 

"  But  she's  out  so  much." 

"  No,  she's  fidgety  and  restless.  .  .  .  It's  not 
nice  of  me  to  say  so,  dear,  but  really  Dorine  is  too 
fidgety  and  restless,  child.  .  .  .  Oh,  child,  if  you 
yourself  could  come  and  live  with  me !  " 

"  But,  Mamma,  that  would  never  do." 

"  Yes,  with  your  husband  .  .  .  and  your 
boy.   ..." 

"  No,  Mamma,  it  really  wouldn't  do." 

"  Yes,  it  would,  yes,  it  would  .  .  .  with  your 
husband  and  your  boy.  .  .  .  Then  I  would  put  up 
with  the  extra  trouble." 

11  No,  Mamma,  really,  it  wouldn't  do.  Whereas 
Dorine  ..." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  Dorine.    I  want  you." 

"Why?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS   251 

11 1  want  you.  I  want  Addie.  I  want  youth 
around  me.  It's  all  so  gloomy  here.  Dorine  .  .  . 
Dorine's  gloomy  too.  ...  So  will  you  come?" 

M  Mamma  .    .    .  really  ..." 

44  You  don't  want  to.  I  see  you  don't  want  to. 
.  .  .  You  are  all  of  you  selfish.  .  .  .  Children 
always  are.   .    .    .  Oh,  why  need  I  go  on  living?" 

44  Dear  Mamma,  do  be  reasonable.  You  say  you 
would  find  Dorine  too  much  trouble  .  .  .  and, 
after  all,  there  are  three  of  us.  ..." 

uYes,  three  of  you.    Well?" 

"And  the  rest  of  the  family?" 

"What  about  them?" 

11  They  wouldn't  approve." 

11  It's  none  of  their  business  to  approve  or  dis- 
approve." 

44  And  my  husband  ..." 

44  Well?" 

44  My  husband  ...  no,  really,  it  wouldn't  do." 

44  Yes,  I  see  you  don't  want  to  come.  .  .  . 
You're  all  selfish  alike.   ..." 

No,  it  was  not  feasible.  Constance  foresaw  all 
the  difficulties:  the  old  woman  still  always  moving 
aimlessly  about  the  house  in  the  mornings  .  .  .  and 
coming  upon  a  cigarette  of  Van  der  Welcke's  .  .  . 
a  book  of  Addie's  lying  about  ...  a  hundred 
trifles.  .  .  .  Adolphine,  Cateau,  Dorine  disap- 
proving, beyond  a  doubt,  that  Constance,  of  all 
people,  should  come  to  live  with  her  mother:  Con- 


252    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

stance,  of  all  people  .  .  .  with  Van  der  Welcke. 
.  .  .  No,  it  was  not  feasible  .  .  .  because  of  all 
those  trifles  .  .  .  and  also  because  of  a  strange 
feeling  of  delicacy:  she  did  not  want  to  come  and 
live  at  Mamma's  with  her  husband,  with  Van  der 
Welcke,  long  as  it  was  since  it  had  all  hap- 
pened. .    .    . 

14  Very  well,  dear,  don't,"  said  the  old  woman, 
bitterly;  and  she  nodded  her  head  repeatedly,  in 
sad  comprehension  of  all  the  disappointments  of 
lonely,  melancholy  old  age.  "  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  that's 
how  it  is  .  .  .  always.  .  .  .  And  so  the  old  man,' 
down  there,  is  left  all  alone?  ..." 

Constance's  heart  shrank  within  her.  She  saw 
the  old  woman's  dim  eyes  look  vaguely  into  her 
own  eyes  and  she  read  in  the  vague  glance  the 
uncertain  memory  of  things  that  had  just  been  said. 
And,  while  the  eyes  gazed  dimly,  the  plaintive  voice 
went  on  lamenting,  with  that  inward  sighing,  a 
broken  sound  of  broken  strings,  and  with  a  keener 
note  of  bitterness  through  it,  so  that,  with  that 
voice,  with  that  glance,  the  old  woman  suddenly 
aged  into  the  semblance  of  her  old  sisters,  Auntie 
Tine,  Auntie  Rine.  ... 

Constance  went  home  through  a  dismal,  heavy 
rain,  hurrying  along  under  the  shelter  of  her  um- 
brella, from  which  the  drops  fell  in  a  steady 
cataract.  She  could  not  shake  off  the  gloomy  an- 
xiety that  haunted  her  in  these  days,  through  which 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     253 

flashed  strange  premonitions  and  presentiments; 
and,  since  she  had  been  to  Driebergen,  in  response 
to  the  old  woman's  dying  summons,  she  could  no 
longer  free  herself  from  this  haunting  dread,  as 
though  it  were  all  a  magic  web  in  which  she  was 
caught.  Oh,  what  could  be  threatening,  now  that 
the  old  woman  yonder  was  dead?  What  sort  of 
change  would  come  looming  up,  day  after  day, 
gloomy  day  after  gloomy  day,  in  her  small  life,  in 
the  small  lives  around  her?  .  .  .  For  herself,  in 
the  late  aftermath  of  life,  she  had  found  a  tiny 
grain  of  true  philosophy — small,  oh,  so  small,  but 
very  precious! — and  she  did  not  think  of  herself, 
because  she  believed  that  what  might  still  come,  in 
her  own  life,  she  would  be  able  to  bear  philo- 
sophically. Sometimes  even,  at  such  times,  she 
would  think  of  the  worst  that  could  happen  to  her: 
if  Addie  were  suddenly  to  die.  In  that  case,  per- 
haps, in  that  case  alone,  the  grain  would  not  be 
sufficient  to  enable  her  to  bear  it  with  philosophy. 
.  .  .  But,  for  the  rest  .  .  .  for  the  rest,  she  was 
no  longer  afraid  of  life.  And  yet  what  were  these 
vague  terrors  which  chilled  her  soul,  which  en- 
veloped her  nowadays  in  that  magic  web  of  anxious 
speculation  concerning  the  future?  Would  she  be 
involved  or  would  others?  Was  it  illness  .  .  . 
money  trouble  ...  an  accident  ...  a  catastrophe 
...  or  was  it  death?  .  .  .  Was  it  to  do  with 
Addie  ...  or  was  it  to  do  with  her  mother?    Oh, 


254    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

she  wanted  to  be  prepared  for  anything  .  .  .  but 
what  .  .  .  what  would  it  be  ?  And  these  haunting 
terrors  which  gathered  around  her  so  menacingly, 
like  a  gloomy  twilight,  with  all  those  ghostly  pre- 
monitions and  presentiments  of  what  was  coming, 
was  it  because  the  days  themselves  were  so  gloomy, 
because  it  was  always  raining  out  of  fateful  skies? 
Why  should  there  be  deeper  gloom  around  her 
soul  in  these  days  than  around  others,  perhaps 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  people  ?  Was  it  not  the 
reflection  of  that  gloomy  winter  in  and  around  her 
and  was  not  that  reflection  casting  its  gloom  around 
all  the  people  who  were  now,  like  herself,  walking 
under  dripping  umbrellas  or  else,  like  spectres, 
looking  with  pallid  faces  out  of  their  windows  at 
another  dark  and  dreary  day?  .  .  .  Oh,  how  vast, 
how  immense  it  all  was  and  how  small  were  they 
all!  To  think  that,  if  the  sun  happened  to  shine, 
she  would  perhaps  think  and  feel  quite  differently! 
To  think  that  possibly  she  was  divining,  with  a 
shudder,  something  of  days  and  things  to  come 
and  went  flying  off  to  distant  cloud-lands,  to  all 
,.  ,.  .  and  that  possibly  she  was  divining  nothing! 
...  How  ready  people  were  to  play  with  their 
emotions,  their  sensitiveness !  How  ready  they  were 
to  delude  themselves  that  they  had  seen  invisible 
things,  that  they  had  foretold  the  most  profound 
secrets!  .  .  .  No,  she  could  foretell  nothing,  she 
saw  nothing  invisible  .   .   .  but  still,  argue  as  sensi- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     255 

bly  as  she  might,  a  haunting  fear  oppressed  her,  a 
chill  shudder  ran  through  her,  as  though  she  had 
brought  something  of  death  back  with  her  from 
Driebergen,  as  though  its  shadow  continued  to 
follow  her,  indoors  and  out  of  doors.  Was  it  only 
because  it  was  raining?  .    .    . 

Well,  she  was  glad  to  be  at  home,  to  change 
her  wet  things,  to  slip  into  a  tea-gown  and 
warm  herself  by  the  fire.  Hark  to  the  wind 
howling  round  the  house  and  down  the  lane, 
the  wind  that  came  tearing  on  from  afar 
that  was  far,  wide  and  mysterious,  wide  and  mys- 
terious as  the  heavens,  above  houses  small  as  boxes, 
above  people  as  insects  small!  .  .  .  How  mighty 
was  the  wind!  .  .  .  How  often  had  she  not  thus 
listened  to  the  wind,  her  mighty  Dutch  wind,  as 
though  it  would  carry  all  sorts  of  things  to  her 
...  or,  not  heeding  her  smallness,  swoop  right 
down  upon  her!  .  .  .  What  calamity  was  there 
that  could  happen?  Addie  brought  home  unex- 
pectedly: an  accident  on  his  bicycle;  run  over  by  a 
motor-car;  murdered?  Henri  telling  her  that  they 
were  ruined;  that  he  Would  have  to  work  for  his 
bread:  he  who  had  never  been  able  to  work  after 
his  shattered  career?  The  house  on  fire,  at  home 
...  or  at  Mamma's?  Mamma  dying?  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  thoughts  of  shuddering  horror  they  all 
were  and  of  sombre  misfortune  and  of  death,  al- 
ways death!   .    .    .   Something  happening  to  one  of 


256    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  brothers  or  sisters  or  to  their  children.  For,  in 
spite  of  everything,  she  was  fond  of  all  of  them, 
they  were  still  her  brothers  and  sisters.  Despite 
all  the  misunderstanding,  the  lack  of  harmony,  the 
ill-feeling,  she  was  fond  of  all  of  them,  felt  herself 
to  be  of  one  blood  with  them.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  lonely 
she  was!  .  .  .  And  perhaps,  very  soon,  she  would 
have  to  be  all  alone  like  that,  all  her  life  long: 
without  Mamma,  dead;  without  Henri,  dead; 
without  Addie,  dead!  .   .    . 

She  stared  into  the  fire  and  shivered  in  its  ruddy 
glow,  while  the  shuddering  horror  gripped  her  in 
its  sharp  clutches.  But  a  bell  jangled  loudly  .  .  . 
and  she  felt  a  shock  of  apprehension  passing  through 
her;  her  breath  was  almost  a  scream:  were  they 
bringing  Addie  home  dead?  .   .   . 

Truitje  opened  the  hall-door :  thank  goodness,  she 
heard  his  voice.  She  sank  back  in  her  chair ;  the  door 
of  the  room  opened;  and  he  stood  on  the  threshold, 
laughing: 

u  I  daren't  come  in,  Mummy,  I'm  dripping  wet. 
I'll  go  and  change  first.  Did  you  ever  see  such 
weather?" 

She  smiled;  he  shut  the  door;  and — she  couldn't 
help  it — she  began  to  sob.  When  he  came  down  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later,  healthy,  vigorous,  smiling, 
he  found  her  in  tears : 

"What  is  it,  Mummy?" 

"  I  don't  know,  dear.  ...  „  ." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     257 

44  But  why  are  you  crying?  Surely  there  must  be 
something!  ..." 

44  No,  it's  nothing.  .  .  .  It's  nothing  ...  I 
think.  ..." 

She  leant  against  him.  She  told  him  how  the 
dread  horror  was  clutching  at  her.  She  was  very 
much  unstrung  and  she  felt  as  if  something  was  go- 
ing to  happen:  a  great  sorrow,  a  disaster,  an  acci- 
dent, she  didn't  know  what.  .  .  .  She  poured  out 
her  anxious  soul  to  him,  nestling  in  his  arms: 

11  It's  too  silly,  Addie.     I  must  try  to  be  calmer." 

She  became  calmer  under  his  steady  gaze.  Oh, 
what  delightful  eyes  he  had!  As  she  looked  into 
them,  she  became  calmer: 

44  Addie  .    .    .  your  eyes  ..." 

44  What  about  them,  Mummy?  " 

44  They  are  growing  lighter  in  colour :  they  are  seri- 
ous, as  always,  but  they're  becoming  lighter.  .    .    ." 

44  What's  the  matter  with  my  eyes  now?  " 

44  They've  become  grey." 

44  Oh,  nonsense !  " 

44  Yes,  they're  turning  grey,  blue-grey.  ..." 

He  laughed  at  her  a  little.  She  remained  with  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  looked  into  his  eyes.  She  be- 
came quite  calm,  now,  gave  a  last,  deep  sigh : 

44  Dear,  listen  .    .    .  listen  to  it  blowing.   .    .    ." 

44  Yes,  Mamma." 

44  I'm  afraid  of  the  wind  sometimes  ..." 

44  And  sometimes  you  love  it." 


258    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

11  Yes." 

"  You're  a  very  sensitive  little  Mummy." 

"  I  wonder,  Addie,  if  I'm  so  strange  .  .  .  because 
of  a  presentiment.  .    .    ." 

"  A  presentiment?  " 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  them?  " 

u  I  don't  know  ...  I  never  have  'em  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  awfully  matter-of-fact,  Addie  ?  . .  t.  . 
Or  .   .   ." 

"  I  don't  know,  Mamma.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  you're  not  matter-of-fact.  .  .  .  It's  very 
strange,  but  you  have  a  magnetism  about  you  which 
matter-of-fact  people  never  have.  You  calm  one. 
When  I  lean  against  you,  I  grow  calmer.  .  .  .  Lis- 
ten, listen  to  it  blowing!  " 

"  Yes,  it's  very  stormy.  Let's  listen  to  it  together, 
Mamma.  Perhaps  we  shall  hear  something  ...  in 
the  storm." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes.  His  eyes  were  smiling. 
She  did  not  know  if  he  was  serious  or  joking. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  nestling  closer  in  his  arms,  feel- 
ing that  she  still  had  him,  that  she  had  not  yet  lost 
him.  "  Let  us  listen  to  the  storm  .  .  .  and  see  if  we 
can  hear  anything  ...  in  the  wind.  ..." 

And  they  remained  still,  without  speaking.  The 
lamps  were  not  lit;  only  the  fire  in  the  open  hearth 
cast  its  dancing  gleams  and  shadows  on  the  walls. 
The  wind  tore  on  from  very  far  away,  out  of  mys- 
terious cloud-laden   skies.     It  shrieked  round  the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     259 

house,  rushed  past  the  windows,  howled  in  the  chim- 
ney, spread  its  wide  wings  and  flapped  on  through 
the  clattering  rain,  leaving  its  howl  like  a  trail  in  the 
air.  .    .    . 

By  the  flickering  firelight,  playing  upon  their  small 
souls,  they  listened  attentively.  .  .  .  He  smiled.  .  .  . 
Her  eyes  were  wide  and  staring.  .   .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  next  day,  a  Sunday,  Constance  felt  a  strange 
longing  for  youth  and  laughter,  for  merry  voices 
and  sunny  faces.  Addie  and  his  father  had  gone  out 
early,  trying  the  bicycles  on  the  sodden  roads;  and 
she  was  so  lonely,  still  obsessed  by  that  unaccount- 
able sense  of  depression,  that  she  felt  that  she  must 
have  laughter  around  her,  that  she  must  watch  the 
romping  of  children,  or  she  would  be  perpetually 
bursting  into  tears.  And  she  took  advantage  of  a 
lull  in  the  rain  to  go  to  Adeline's  in  the  Bankastraat. 
As  she  entered  the  house,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
sun  was  shining.  Adeline  was  sitting  downstairs  in 
the  living-room,  with  the  children  round  her.  Marie, 
the  eldest  girl,  was  just  twelve.  All  the  others  fol- 
lowed her  at  regular  intervals  of  age,  like  the  steps 
of  a  .staircase.  Marie  was  a  sort  of  little  mother  to 
the  rest:  she  was  a  great  help  to  Adeline  with  the 
three  youngest,  those  with  the  ugly  names,  Jan,  Piet 
and  Klaasje.  These  were  now  six  years,  four 
and  two;  and  they  formed  a  little  group  within 
the  big  group,  because  Jan  insisted  on  ruling 
over  Klaasje  and  Piet,  looking  upon  them  as 
his  vassals,  imitating  Papa's  voice,  playing  at 
horses  with  Piet  and  Klaasje,  both  very  docile,  while 

260 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    261 

Jan  was  the  tyrant,  trying  to  impart  a  roar 
to  his  shrill  little  cock-crow  of  a  voice  .  .  .  until 
Marietje  had  to  come  in  between  as  a  supreme 
referee,  giving  her  decision  in  all  sorts  of  difficult 
questions  that  arose  out  of  the  merest  trifle.  .  .  . 
Adeletje,  ten  and  a  half,  was  a  delicate,  ailing  child, 
mostly  sitting  very  quietly  close  to  Mamma,  hiding 
in  her  skirts:  a  puny  little  thing,  a  great  anxiety  to 
her  mother;  and  Adeline  was  uneasy  too  about 
Klaasje,  as  the  child  remained  very  backward  and 
dull:  the  uncles  and  aunts  called  it  an  idiot.  .  .  . 
But  a  merry  little  couple  were  Gerdy  and  Constant, 
nine  and  eight  years  old,  always  together,  adoring 
each  other,  good  little  flaxen-haired  kiddies  that  they 
were:  very  babyish  for  their  age,  blending  their  re- 
semblance to  Papa  and  Mamma  into  one  soft  mix- 
ture of  pink  and  white  and  gold,  almost  like  a  co- 
loured picture,  and  seeming  a  couple  of  idyllic  little 
figures  by  the  side  of  the  rough,  sturdy  elder 
brothers.  For,  while  Jan  already  was  turbulent  and 
tyrannical,  Alex  and  Guy  were  regular  "  nuts/'  had 
become  indifferent  to  Marietje's  judicial  decisions,  no 
longer  even  submitted  to  Adeline's  restraint  and  had 
lost  all  sense  of  awe  except  when  the  stairs  creaked 
under  Gerrit's  heavy  footstep  or  when  he  bellowed 
at  them.  Though  even  then  they  knew,  secretly, 
with  a  knowing  glance  of  mutual  understanding,  that 
Papa  might  raise  his  voice,  but  never  raised  his 
hand;  that,  when  Mamma  decreed  a  punishment,  he 


262    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

would  say  something  to  her  in  French,  so  that  the 
punishment  became  very  slight.  And  this  precocious 
worldly  wisdom  had  turned  them,  in  their  little  nur- 
sery world,  into  two  intractable,  cheeky,  swanking 
young  reprobates,  putting  on  big  boys'  airs,  striking 
terror  into  little  Gerdy  and  Constant,  who  would  run 
away  together  and  hide  and  play  at  mothers  and 
fathers  behind  the  sofa  standing  aslant  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, chuckling  quietly  when  Mamma  or 
Marietje  looked  for  them  and  could  not  find  them. 
But,  however  intractable,  Alex  and  Guy  were  two 
handsome  little  fellows,  with  cheeky  mouths,  but 
gentle  eyes,  dark  eyes,  the  Van  Lowe  eyes :  not  their 
hard,  but  their  soft  eyes;  and,  when  they  were  impu- 
dent and  troublesome,  with  lips  stuck  out  cheekily, 
but  with  those  eyes  full  of  dark,  soft  gentleness, 
then  Constance  felt  in  love  with  them,  spoilt  them 
even  more  than  Gerrit  did,  put  up  with  everything 
from  the  rascals,  even  allowing  the  two  great  boys 
to  hang  all  over  her  and  ruffle  her  clothes  and  hair. 
This  time  too,  they  rushed  at  her  the  moment  she 
came  in;  and  Constance,  glad  to  see  them  so  radiant, 
glad  that  everything  became  bright  around  her,  as 
though  the  sun  were  shining,  flung  open  her  arms; 
but  Adeline  cried: 

"  Alex !  Guy !  Take  care :  Auntie's  good  cloak ! 
.    .    .  Boys,  do  take  care:  Auntie's  beautiful  hat!  " 

But  neither  Alex  nor  Guy  had  any  regard  for 
Auntie's  good  cloak  or  Auntie's  beautiful  hat;  and 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    263 

Constance  was  so  weak  in  their  rather  rough  and 
disrespectful  embrace  that  she  only  laughed  and 
laughed  and  laughed.  Oh,  sunshine,  sunshine  at  last! 
Passionately  fond  as  she  was  of  her  own  big  son,  this 
was  what  she  needed  in  these  days  of  rain  and 
gloomy  skies  and  gloomy  feelings:  this  almost  over- 
whelming sunshine,  this  almost  pitiless  blaze  of  ra- 
diant youth;  this  rough  gambolling  around  her  of 
what  was  young  and  healthy  and  bright,  as  if  the 
shock  brought  her  out  of  her  gloomy  depression.  .  .  . 

When  the  boys,  after  behaving  like  young  dogs 
jumping  up  to  kiss  her  face,  were  at  last  satisfied, 
she  and  sober  Marietje  looked  all  through  the  house 
for  Gerdy  and  Constant,  who  had  purposely  hidden 
themselves  and  who,  she  knew,  had  crept  behind  the 
slanting  sofa  in  the  drawing-room.  She  would  not 
find  them  too  quickly,  wished  to  prolong  their  enjoy- 
ment, called  out  in  the  drawing-room : 

"  But  where  can  they  be?  Wherever  can  they  be? 
Constant!    Gerdy!  .    .    ." 

Then  at  last  the  giggles  of  the  little  brother  and 
sister  behind  the  sofa  made  her  look  over  the  back: 

41  Here  they  are!    Here  they  are!  " 

Oh,  how  young  those  children  were!  Excepting 
wise  and  sedate  Marietje — Mamma's  help — and 
perhaps  quiet  Adeletje,  how  young  they  were! 
Those  two  rascals,  what  children  they  were  for  their 
eleven  and  ten  years !  That  little  father-and-mother 
pair,  Gerdy  and  Constant,  what  babies  for  their  nine 


264    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  eight !  And  then  the  nursery  proper,  Jan  tyran- 
nizing over  Piet  and  Klaasje !  .  .  .  How  pink  and 
young  and  fresh  and  sunny  it  all  was!  .  .  .  Now 
those  were  real  children,  even  though  Klaasje's 
laugh  was  very  dull  and  silly.  She  had  never  known 
Addie  like  that.  Addie  had  never  had  that  sort  of 
youth.  No,  his  childhood  had  been  spent  amid  the 
outbursts  of  temper  of  his  father  and  mother,  amid 
their  jealousies,  amid  scenes  and  tears,  so  that  the 
child  had  never  been  a  child.  And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet, 
though  he  had  grown  up  early,  how  well  he  had  taken 
care  of  himself  and  what  kindly  powers  had  watched 
over  him,  making  him  into  their  one  great  joy  and 
happiness  and  consolation !  .  .  . 

But,  though  this  melancholy  just  passed  through 
her,  still  the  morning,  that  Sunday  morning,  had 
begun  sunnily  for  her,  with  all  that  golden  hair,  all 
those  soft,  pink  cheeks,  all  that  mad,  radiant  gaiety; 
and  Constance  forgot  her  gloomy  depression,  caused 
by  she  knew  not  what,  in  the  glow  of  childish  happi- 
ness in  that  living-room. 

The  stairs  now  groaned  under  a  heavy  tread. 

"  There's  Gerrit,"  said  Adeline. 

"  How  late  he  is !  "  said  Constance,  laughing. 
11  Gerrit,  how  late  you  are !  "  she  cried,  even  before 
he  opened  the  door. 

And  she  was  surprised  that  his  step  should  sound 
so  sluggish  and  heavy,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  hear 
him  fill  the  whole  house  with  the  brisk  noise  of  his 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     265 

movements.  Sluggishly  and  heavily  his  footsteps 
came  down  the  passage.  Then  he  slowly  opened  the 
door  of  the  dining-room,  which  was  also  the  living- 
room. 

He  remained  standing  in  the  doorway: 

11  Ah,  Constance  !     Good-morning." 

u  Good-morning,  Gerrit.  How  late  you  are!" 
she  repeated,  gaily.  M  You're  in  no  hurry  to  get  up 
on  a  Sunday,  I  see !  " 

But  she  was  startled  when  she  looked  at  him: 

44  Gerrit,  dear  .    .    .  what's  the  matter?" 

44  I'm  feeling  rotten,"  he  said,  gloomily.  44  No, 
children,  don't  worry  Father." 

And  he  pushed  aside  the  playful-rough  hands  of 
the  two  cheeky  rascals,  Alex  and  Guy. 

44  Gerrit  hasn't  been  at  all  well  for  a  day  or  two," 
said  Adeline,  anxiously. 

44  What  is  it,  Gerrit?"  asked  Constance,  smiling 
her  smile  of  a  moment  ago,  when  the  sunny  warmth 
of  the  children  had  made  her  smile  through  her  own 
gloomy  depression. 

44 1  feel  beastly  rotten,"  he  repeated,  gloomily. 
14  No,  thanks,  I  don't  want  any  breakfast." 

44  Haven't  you  been  well  for  the  last  two  days?  " 
asked  Constance. 

He  looked  at  her  with  dull,  glassy  eyes.  He 
thought  of  telling  her,  with  bitter  irony,  that  all  his 
life  he  had  not  been  well;  but  she  would  not  have 
understood,  she  would  have  believed  that  he  was 


266    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

joking,  that  he  was  vexed  about  something;  she 
would  not  have  known.  And,  besides,  he  did  not 
want  to  hurt  her  either:  she  was  so  nice,  he  always 
looked  upon  her  as  the  nicest  of  his  sisters,  though 
they  had  gone  years  without  seeing  each  other. 
What  a  good  thing  it  was  that  she  had  come  back! 
She  had  been  back  in  Holland  three  years  now,  his 
little  sister;  he  was  fond  of  her,  his  little  sister; 
he  had  an  almost  mystic  feeling  for  her,  the 
sympathy  which  has  its  origin  in  kinship,  that 
sharing  of  the  same  blood,  the  same  soul,  appor- 
tioned so  mysteriously  in  the  birth  of  brother  and 
sister  out  of  one  and  the  same  mother  by  one  and 
the  same  father;  and  he  felt  so  clearly  that  she  was 
his  sister,  that  he  loved  her  as  something  of  himself, 
a  part  of  himself,  something  of  his  own  flesh  and 
blood  and  soul,  that  he  went  up  to  her,  laid  his  hand 
on  her  head — she  had  taken  off  her  hat;  and  her  hair 
was  all  ruffled  with  the  boys'  romping — and  said  to 
her,  in  a  voice  which  he  could  not  possibly  raise  to 
a  roar  and  which  broke  faintly  with  emotion: 

"  It's  good  to  see  you,  Sissy,  with  your  dear,  kind 
face.  ...  I  don't  know  about  being  unwell,  child : 
Fve  had  a  couple  of  bad  nights,  that's  all." 

"  But  you  sleep  well  as  a  rule." 

"  Yes,  as  a  rule." 

"  And  your  appetite  is  good." 

11  Yes,  Connie,  I  have  a  good  appetite  as  a  rule. 
But  ...  I  don't  feel  like  breakfast  this  morning." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     267 

44  Your  face  is  so  drawn.  ..." 

u  I  shall  be  all  right  presently,"  he  said,  brighten- 
ing up.  And  he  struck  his  chest  with  his  two  hands. 
44  My  old  carcase  can  stand  some  knocking  about." 

11  Gerrit  came  home  dripping  wet  two  days  ago," 
said  Adeline.  "  He  had  been  standing  on  the  front 
of  the  tram,  in  a  pelting  rain,  and  he  was  wet  to  the 
skin." 

14  But,  Gerrit,  why  did  you  do  it?  " 

"  To  get  the  wind  in  my  face,  Sissy  ..." 

11  And  to  catch  cold." 

He  laughed: 

44  There,  don't  worry  about  me.  My  old  carcase," 
striking  his  chest,  44  can  stand  some  knocking  about." 

44  But  you're  looking  ill." 

44  Oh,  rot!" 

44  Yes,  you're  looking  ill." 

44 1  want  some  air.  The  weather's  not  so  bad. 
It's  not  raining,  it's  only  blowing  fit  to  blow  your 
head  off.  Are  you  afraid  of  the  wind,  or  will  you 
come  for  a  walk  with  your  brother?  " 

44  Very  well,  Gerrit  .   .   .  but  first  eat  a  nice  little 

egg-" 

He  gave  a  roar  of  laughter  which  made  the  whole 
room  ring  again.  The  children  also  laughed:  they 
always  laughed  when  Papa  laughed  like  that;  and 
the  laughter  gave  courage  to  Gerdy,  who  had  looked 
frightened  at  first.  She  crept  up  on  Gerrit's  knees, 
mad  on  being  caressed,  clung  on  to  Gerrit,  kissed  him 


268    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

with  tiny  little  kisses;  and  Alex  and  Guy  hung,  one 
on  his  arm,  the  other  on  his  leg,  while  his  Homeric 
laughter  still  rang  long  and  loud. 

And  his  laughter  never  ceased.  He  laughed  till 
the  servant  peeped  round  the  door  and  disappeared 
again,  perplexed.  He  laughed  till  all  the  children, 
the  nine  of  them,  were  laughing,  for  his  laughter  had 
tempted  the  three  little  ones — Jan,  the  tyrant,  and 
his  two  small  vassals — from  the  stairs,  where  they 
were  playing.  He  laughed  till  Adeline,  the  dear 
quiet  little  mother,  also  got  a  painful  fit  of  giggling, 
which  made  her  choke  silently  in  herself.  And  he 
could  not  stop ;  his  laughter  roared  out  and  filled  the 
house:  even  a  street-boy,  out  of  doors,  flattened  his 
nose  against  the  window  in  an  attempt  to  peer  in  and 
discover  who  was  laughing  like  that  inside. 

And  at  last  Gerrit  got  up,  released  himself  from 
the  three  children,  kissed  Constance ;  and,  with  a  red 
face,  tears  in  his  eyes  and  a  mouth  still  distorted  with 
merriment,  he  caught  her  two  shoulders  in  his  great 
hands  and  said,  looking  deep  into  her  eyes : 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Sissy,  but  I  c-couldn't  help  it,  I 
c-couldn't  help  it!  .  .  .  You'll  be  the  death  of  me 
with  laughing,  if  you  go  on  like  that !  .  .  .  And  when 
you  put  on  that  kind  little  voice  and  or-order  me  .  .  . 
to  eat  a  n-nice  little  egg  .  .  .  before  you  consent  to 
go  for  a  walk  with  me  ...!..  .  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear ! 
I  shall  never  get  over  it!  .  .  .  Very  well  ...  all 
right  .   .   .  just  to  please  you  .  ..;  .  but  then  ... 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    269 

but  then  you  must  .  .  .  b-boil  the  n-nice  little  egg  for 
me  .  .  .  and  put  it  before  me  .  .  .  put  my  n-nice 
little  egg  before  me  !  .    .    . " 

Constance  was  laughing  too;  the  children  all  kept 
on  laughing,  like  mad,  not  really  knowing  what  they 
were  laughing  at,  now  that  they  were  all  laughing 
together;  and  Adeline,  Adeline  .    .    . 

"L-look!"  said  Gerrit,  pointing  to  his  wife. 
"Irlookl" 

And,  while  Constance  took  the  egg  out  of  the 
boiler,  she  looked  round  at  Adeline.  The  little 
mother  was  still  overcome  with  her  fit  of  silent 
giggling;  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks;  the 
children  around  her  were  screaming  with  the  fun 
of  it. 

11  I  n-never  in  all  my  1-life,  Connie,"  said  Gerrit, 
"  saw  Line  laugh  ...  as  she's  laughing  at  that  n-nice 
little  egg  of  yours.  ..." 

And  he  started  afresh.  He  roared.  But  she  had 
put  his  plate  in  front  of  him.  He  now  played  the 
clown,  took  up  his  spoon,  said  in  a  pretty  little  voice 
that  sounded  humorously  in  his  great  roaring 
throat: 

11  Thank  you  kindly,  Constance  .  .  .  for  your 
n-nice  little  egg.  .    .    .  It's  too  sweet  of  you!  .    .   ." 

And  he  nipped  at  his  nice  little  egg  with  small, 
careful  spoonfuls,  pretending  to  be  very  weak  and 
very  fragile;  and  the  children,  seeing  their  big,  burly 
father  nipping  at  the  nice  little  egg  with  dainty  little 


27o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

movements,  were  wild  with  delight,  thought  it  great 
fun  of  Papa.  .   .   . 

He  had  finished  and  was  ready  for  his  walk  with 
Constance. 

"  Papa,  may  we  come  too?  Do  let  us  come  too, 
Papa!" 

"No,"  he  said,  bluntly.  "No,  don't  be  such 
limpets.  You're  just  like  a  pack  of  octopuses,  wind- 
ing one  in  their  suckers.  No,  Father  wants  to  go  out 
with  his  sister  alone,  for  once.  ..." 

And  he  went  out  alone  with  Constance,  after  she 
had  managed  to  conceal  the  disorder  of  her  hair  un- 
der her  hat  and  veil. 

Outside,  she  said  to  him : 

"  Gerrit,  how  bright  it  all  is  in  your  house,  how 
sunny,  how  happy !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  every  reason  to  be  thankful,  Gerrit." 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  feel  better  now,  in  the  air?  " 

"  Yes  .   .    .  especially  after  your  nice  little  cgg.u 

"  No,  don't  be  silly,  Gerrit.  You  don't  look  half 
as  well  as  usual." 

"  And  I  feel  simply  rotten  ...  if  you  really  want 
to  know.'" 

"  Still?" 

"  Yes  .  ,.  .  but  it'll  pass  off.  ...  I  ...  I  always 
sleep  very  well;  and  just  because  of  that  a  bad  night 
upsets  me.  ..." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    271 

44  But  that's  an  exception,  isn't  it?" 

44  Yes,  of  course,  it's  an  exception.  Don't  be 
anxious  about  me,  Sissy.  I've  a  hide  like  a  rhino- 
ceros. I'm  the  pachyderm  of  the  family.  I  haven't 
got  your  dainty  little  constitution.  ..." 

11 1  am  so  glad  when  I  come  to  you,  Gerrit.  I 
always  brighten  up  in  your  house." 

44  You  haven't  been  gloomy,  surely?" 

44  That's  just  what  I  have  been,  quite  lately." 

44  And  why,  Connie?" 

44 1  don't  know.     Because  of  the  weather  .    .    ." 

44  Are  you  afraid  of  it?  It's  beginning  to  rain 
again." 

44  As  long  as  it  doesn't  pour,  we  can  go  on  walk- 
ing.  .   .   . 

44  It  does  me  good,  especially  the  wind  blowing 
about  one.    Do  you  like  wind?  " 

44  Yes,  I  do  ...  but  .  .  ." 

44  But  what?" 

44  Sometimes  I  hear  too  much  in  it." 

44  My  little  fanciful  sister  of  old !  What  do  you 
hear  in  it?" 

44  Gloomy  things,  melancholy  things  .  .  .  but  al- 
ways very  big  things  .  .  .  whereas  we  ourselves  are 
so  small,  so  very  small.  .    .    ." 

44  People  never  change.  .  .  .  You're  just  the  little 
sister  that  you  used  to  be  .  .  .in  the  river  .  .  .  with 
your  fairy-tales  ..." 

44  But  what  I  hear  in  the  wind  is  not  a  fairy-tale." 


272     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"What  do  you  hear?" 

"  Life  :  the  whole  of  life  itself.  .  .  .  Things  of  the 
past;  things  of  the  future;  and  all  big  and  tremen- 
dous. .  .  .  When  I  listen  to  the  wind,  the  past  be- 
comes immense  and  the  future  tremendous.  .  .  .  and 
I  remain  so  small,  so  small.  .  *  .  V 

"  What  you  remain,  child,  is  a  dreamer.  .   .   . " 

"  No,  I  haven't  remained  so.  ...  I  may  have 
become  one  again.  .  .  ." 

11  Yes,  you  have  become  one  again.  ...  I  recog- 
nize you  like  this  absolutely,  just  as  you  were  as  a 
slim,  fair-haired  little  girl,  the  same  little  fairy-like 
vision.  .  .  .  How  long  ago  it  all  is,  Connie !  .  .  . 
How  everything  melts  away  in  our  lives !  .  .  .  How 
old  we  grow !  .   .   . " 

44  But  all  your  children :  they  keep  you  young. 
They  all  .   .   .  they  all  belong  to  the  future.  ..." 

"  Yes,  if  only  I  myself 

"What?" 

"  Nothing." 

11  What  were  you  going  to  say?  " 

14 1  was  going  to  own  up  to  something.  I  was  go- 
ing to  confess  to  you.  But  why  should  I  ?  It's  bet- 
ter not.  It  would  be  very  weak  of  me.  It's  better 
not.    It's  better  that  I  shouldn't  speak." 

"  Gerrit  .  .  .  Gerrit,  dear  .  .  .  tell  me  .  t.;  f.<  is 
there  ...  is  there  .  .  .  ?  " 

"What?  .  .  ." 

"  Is  there  anything?  ^  .2  LJ' 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     273 

"No." 

11  Is  there  anything  threatening  you?  " 

"Why,  no,  child!  " 

44  Aren't  you  well?  ...  Do  you  feel  ...  un- 
happy? .  .  .  Have  you  some  big  trouble?  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  Gerrit,  tell  me !  .   .   .  I'm  your  sister  after  all!  " 

44  Yes,  you're  my  sister,  the  same  flesh  and  blood, 
soul  of  my  soul.  .  .  .  No,  there's  nothing,  Constance, 
there's  nothing  threatening." 

44  And  there's  no  secret  trouble  ?  " 

44  No,  no  secret  trouble." 

44  Yes,  I'm  sure  there  is." 

44  No,  old  girl.  It's  only  that  I've  slept  badly  the 
last  night  or  two.    And  I  feel  rotten.    That's  all." 

44  But  your  health  is  good,  isn't  it?" 

44  Oh  dear,  yes!" 

44  There's  nothing  serious  the  matter?  You're  not 
seriously  ill?  " 

44  No,  no,  certainly  not." 

44  Then  what  is  it?" 

44  Nothing." 

44  No,  no,  I  feel  that  you  have  a  trouble  of  some 
kind.  Gerrit,  aren't  you  happy?  Is  there  some  pri- 
vate worry?    Aren't  you  happy  with  Adeline?  " 

44  Why,  of  course  I  am,  Connie !  She's  awfully 
sweet.    I'm  very  happy  with  her." 

44  Then  what's  wrong?  " 

44  Nothing." 

44  Yes,  Gerrit,  there's  something  wrong.    Oh,  do 


274    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

tell  me  about  it!  Don't  keep  it  to  yourself.  Sor- 
row .   .   .  chokes  us  .   .   .  when  we  keep  it  in." 

"  No,  it's  not  sorrow.  .  ..  .  It's  .  ....  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  ..." 

"  You  don't  know?" 

"  No." 

"  But  there's  something,  you  see.    What  is  it?" 

"  Constance,  it's  .  .  ,.  it's  ..." 

"What?" 

11  Constance,  it's an  overpowering  melan- 
choly." 

"  An  overpowering  melancholy?  " 

"  Yes." 

44  What  about?" 

"  About  .  .  .  myself." 

"Yourself?" 

"  Yes.   .    .    .   Because  I'm  rotten." 

11  Because  you  haven't  felt  well  the  last  few 
days?" 

"  Because  I'm  never  well." 

She  now  thought  that  he  was  exaggerating,  that  he 
was  joking,  that  he  was  pessimistical,  hypochon- 
driacal; and  she  said: 

"Why,  Gerrit!  ..." 

He  understood  that  she  did  not  believe  him,  that 
she  never  would  believe  him.    He  laughed : 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I've  a  gay  old  imagination, 
haven't  I?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  you're  imagining  things  a  bit." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    275 

"  It's  this  confounded  weather,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  that  makes  people  out  of  sorts.  It  doesn't 
affect  children,  fortunately." 

44  No,  not  children." 

M  When  you  see  them  presently,  you'll  .  .  .  But 
you  mustn't  let  our  walk  make  you  gloomy.  Gerrit, 
will  you  try  to  keep  your  mind  off  things  and  not  to 
be  melancholy?  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  like 
this!" 

44  No,  old  girl,  but  what  does  any  one  of  us  know 
about  the  other?" 

44  Not  much,  I  admit." 

44  Each  of  us  is  a  sealed  book  to  the  other.  And 
yet  you're  fond  of  me  and  I  of  you.  And  you  know 
nothing  about  me  .   .   .  nor  I  about  you." 

44  That's  true." 

44  You  know  nothing  of  my  secret  self.  And  I 
know  nothing  of  your  secret  self." 

44  No,"  she  confessed  softly;  and  she  blushed  and 
thought  of  the  life  that  had  blossomed  late  in  her, 
blossomed  into  spring  and  summer,  the  life  of  which 
nobody  knew. 

44  It  has  to  be  so.  It  can't  be  otherwise.  We  per- 
ceive so  little  of  one  another,  in  the  words  we  ex- 
change. I  have  often  longed  for  a  friend  .  .  .  with 
whom  I  could  feel  his  secret  self  and  I  mine.  I  never 
had  a  friend  like  that." 

44  Gerrit,  I  did  not  know  .  ..  .  that  you  were  so 
.   .   .  sensitive." 


276    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  No.  I  am  saying  things  to  you  which  I  never 
talk  about.  And  I  say  them  feeling  that  it  is  no  use 
saying  them.    And  yet  you're  my  sister,  you  know." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  shall  take  you  home  now.  I'm  only  dragging 
you  through  the  mud  and  rain.  The  roads  are 
soaked  through.  You'll  be  home  in  a  minute  or 
two." 

He  brought  her  home.  She  rang  the  bell.  Truitje 
opened  the  door. 

"Is  Van  der  Welcke  in,  do  you  think?"  Gerrit 
asked  Constance. 

u  Yes,  ma'am,"  Truitje  answered,  "  the  master's 
upstairs." 

"  I'll  just  go  up  and  see  him." 

Gerrit  ran  up  the  stairs. 

"I  was  forgetting,  ma'am:  there's- a  telegram 
come,"  said  Truitje. 

"A  telegram?  ..." 

She  did  not  know  what  came  over  her,  but  she 
felt  deadly  afraid.  The  blood  seemed  to  freeze 
round  her  heart.  She  took  the  telegram  from 
Truitje,  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  closed  the 
door  before  breaking  it  open.   .    .    . 

Gerrit  had  only  run  up  to  say  a  word  to  Van 
der  Welcke :  he  had  to  go  back  home,  for  it  was 
twelve  o'clock  and  getting  on  for  lunch-time.  Van 
der  Welcke  saw  him  down  the  stairs. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  old  chap,"  said  Gerrit,  genially, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     277 

shaking  hands  with  Van  der  Welcke.  "  Con- 
stance!" he  cried.     "Constance!   .    .    ." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Constance!  M  Gerrit  called  once  more. 

The  kitchen-door  was  open. 

44  The  mistress  is  in  the  drawing-room,  sir,"  said 
the  servant. 

44  Constance   ..." 

He  opened  the  door.  But  the  door  stuck,  as 
though  pushing  against  a  body. 

44  What  the  devil!  ..."  Gerrit  began,  in  con- 
sternation. 

They  rushed  in  through  the  dining-room:  Van 
der  Welcke,  Gerrit,  the  maid.  Constance  was  lying 
against  the  door  in  a  dead  faint,  with  the  telegram 
crumpled  in  her  clenched  hand: 

"  Paris.  .  ,.,  ,., 
44  Henri  dead.    Am  in  despair. 

"  Emilie." 


CHAPTER  XX 

It  was  a  dismal  evening  at  Mrs.  van  Lowe's  that 
Sunday.  And  yet  Mamma  knew  nothing:  together 
with  Dorine,  she  had  seen  that  the  maids  set  out  the 
card-tables,  had  seen,  according  to  her  custom,  to 
the  sandwiches,  the  cakes  and  the  wine  which 
were  invariably  put  out  in  the  boudoir,  under 
the  portrait  of  her  husband,  the  late  governor- 
general.  But  the  old  lady  was  different  from 
usual;  and  Dorine,  looking  very  pale  and  appre- 
hensive, gave  a  start  of  amazement  when  she 
asked: 

"Dorine,  who's  been  moving  Papa's  portrait?" 

The  old  woman  asked  the  question  testily  and 
peremptorily. 

"  But,  Mamma,  it's  been  here  for  years.  After 
Papa's  death,  you  said  you  wouldn't  have  it  always 
before  your  eyes  in  the  drawing-room  ...  and  it 
was  moved  in  here  ..." 

"Who,  do  you  say,  moved  it?" 

"  Why,  you  yourself,  Mamma !  " 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you.  ..." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  said  the  old  woman,  remembering. 
"Yes,  yes,  I  remember;  I  only  asked  because  it 

a78 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    279 

looks  so  out  of  place  here   ...   in  the  little  room 
.    .    .  and  it  is  such  a  fine  portrait.  .    .    ." 

Dorine  said  nothing  more.  Her  legs  shook  be- 
neath her;  but  she  went  on  spreading  out  the  cards. 

Karel  and  Cateau  arrived: 

M  How  aw-ful! "  said  Cateau,  pale  in  the  face. 
11  We  thought  we  had  bet-ter  come  .  .  .  for 
Mamma's  sake  .    .    .  didn't  we,  Ka-rel?" 

11  Mamma  knows  nothing,"  said  Dorine.  "  But 
we  can't  possibly  keep  it  from  her.  .  .  .  Otto  has 
gone  to  Baarn  to  break  the  news  to  Bertha." 

The  Van  Saetzemas  arrived: 

44  No  details  yet?  "  asked  Adolphine. 

44  No,"  Dorine  whispered,  nervously,  seeing 
Mamma  approaching. 

44  How  late  you  all  are ! "  grumbled  the  old 
woman.  44  Why  aren't  Uncle  Herman  and  Auntie 
Lot  here?  And  why  haven't  Auntie  Tine  and 
Auntie  Rine  come  yet?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  painful  pause. 

44  But  they  haven't  been  coming  for  some  time, 
Mamma,"  said  Adolphine,  gently. 

44  What  do  you  say?    Are  they  ill?  " 

44  The  old  aunts  haven't  been  for  ev-er  so  long 
on  Sunday  even-ings,"  said  Cateau,  with  a  great  deal 
of  pitying  emphasis. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  van  Lowe  seemed  to  remember. 
Yes,  it  was  true :  the  sisters  had  not  come  on  Sunday 
evenings  for  a  long  time.    She  nodded  her  head  in 


280    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

assent,  with  an  air  of  knowing  all  about  the  sad 
things  which  happen  in  old  age  and  which  will 
happen  also  in  the  future  that  is  still  hidden  from 
the  children.    But  in  her  heart  she  thought : 

"  There's  something." 

And  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  gaze  ahead.  But 
she  did  not  see  it  before  her,  did  not  see  it  before 
her  vague  eyes,  as  she  had  seen  the  death  of  Henri's 
mother,  yonder,  in  a  dark  room  at  Driebergen,  in 
a  dark  oak  bedstead,  behind  dark  green  curtains. 
She  felt  that  there  was  something  that  they  had 
kept  from  her  in  order  to  spare  her  pain,  but  she 
did  not  see  it  as  she  had  but  lately  seen  other 
things  which  the  children  did  not  know.  It  was  as 
though  her  sight  were  growing  dim  and  uncertain, 
as  though  she  only  guessed,  only  suspected  things. 
And  she  would  not  ask  what  it  was.  If  there  was 
something  .  .  .  well,  then  her  Sunday  family- 
evening  could  not  help  being  dreary  and  silent. 
Adolphine's  children  no  longer  sat  round  the  big 
table  in  the  conservatory :  the  old  lady  did  not  under- 
stand why,  did  not  see  that  they  were  growing  up, 
that  the  round  games  bored  them.  Only,  as  she 
looked  at  her  empty  room,  she  asked  just  one  more 
question : 

"  Where's  Bertha?    And  where's  Constance?" 

This  time,  Adolphine  and  Cateau  did  not  even 
trouble  to  remind  Mamma  that  Bertha  was  living 
at  Baarn.    As  for  Auntie  Lot,  how  could  they  tell 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     281 

her  that  the  good  soul  had  had  a  nervous  break- 
down after  being  told  of  Henri's  sudden  death, 
about  which  no  one  knew  any  details?  Toetie  ar- 
rived very  late  and  said  that  Mamma  had  a  little 
headache.  As  for  Constance,  not  one  of  the  children 
would  have  dared  to  say  that  she  and  Van  der 
Welcke  had  gone  to  Paris  by  the  night-mail  at  six 
o'clock,  as  soon  as  they  could  after  Emilie's  tele- 
gram. Gerrit  wanted  to  go  with  them,  but  he  was 
ill  and  had  hardly  said  a  word  to  Adeline  about  the 
telegram  when  he  returned  home  from  the  Kerk- 
hoflaan.  He  had  got  into  bed  shivering,  thinking 
that  he  had  a  feverish  attack,  influenza  or  some- 
thing. The  daughters  also  thought  it  better  not  to 
tell  Mamma  that  Gerrit  was  ill;  and  Mamma  did 
not  even  ask  after  Gerrit,  though  she  missed  him 
and  Adeline  and  thought  that  her  rooms  looked  very 
empty. 

Where  could  they  be?  the  old  woman  wondered. 
None  of  Bertha's  little  tribe;  the  old  sisters  not 
there;  Constance  not  there;  Gerrit  not  there;  Auntie 
Lot  not  there:  where  were  they  all?  the  old  woman 
kept  wondering.  How  big  her  rooms  looked,  what 
a  shivery  feeling  the  card-tables  gave  her,  with  the 
markers,  with  the  cards  spread  out  in  an  S!  Well, 
if  there  were  no  children  left,  it  was  not  worth 
while  having  the  table  put  out  for  the  round  games 
in  the  conservatory,  at  least  not  until  Gerrit's 
children    were    bigger,    until    a    new   warmth    sur- 


282    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

rounded  her,  on  her  poor  Sunday  evenings!  And 
what  was  the  use  of  ordering  such  a  lot  of  cakes, 
if  there  was  nobody  there  to  eat  them? 

And  it  was  very  strange,  but  this  evening,  now 
that  her  rooms  were  so  empty,  she  grew  very  weary 
of  those  who  were  there — Adolphine,  Cateau, 
Floortje  and  Dijkerhof — very  tired.  She  felt  her 
face  becoming  drawn  and  haggard,  her  drooping 
eyelids  twitching  over  her  dim  eyes  and  her  heavily- 
veined  hands  trembling  in  her  lap  with  utter  weari- 
ness. She  did  not  speak,  only  nodded :  the  wise  nod 
of  old  age,  knowing  that  old  age  spells  sadness. 
She  only  nodded,  longing  for  them  to  go.  They 
were  uncomfortable:  they  whispered  together,  their 
faces  were  pale;  they  sat  there  staring  in  such  a 
strange,  spectral  way  .  .  .  as  if  something  dreadful 
had  happened  or  was  going  to  happen.  .  .  .  Had 
the  servants  made  up  the  fires  so  badly?  Was  it  so 
bitterly  cold,  so  creepily  chilly  in  her  rooms,  that 
she  felt  shivers  all  down  her  old,  bent  back?  .  .  . 
And,  when  the  children  at  last,  earlier  than  usual, 
took  leave  of  her — still  with  that  same  spectral 
stare,  as  though  they  were  looking  at  something 
dreadful  that  had  happened  or  was  going  to  happen 
— she  felt  inclined  to  say  to  them  that  she  was 
getting  too  old  now  to  keep  up  her  Sunday  evenings ; 
she  had  it  on  her  lips  to  say  as  much  to  Floortje, 
to  Cateau,  to  Adolphine;  but  a  pity  for  them  all 
and  especially  for  herself  restrained  her  and  she 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     283 

did  not  say  it.  On  the  contrary,  she  said,  very 
wearily: 

"  Well,  I  hope  that  you  will  all  be  more  par- 
ticular about  coming  next  Sunday  ...  all  of  you, 
all  of  you.  ...  I  want  you  all  here.  ...  I  want 
to  have  you  all  around  me." 

Then  they  left  her  alone,  earlier  than  usual,  and 
the  old  woman  did  not  ring  at  once  for  the  servants 
to  put  out  the  lights,  to  go  to  bed,  but  first  wandered 
for  a  little  while  longer  through  her  large,  empty, 
still  brightly-lit  rooms.  How  much  had  changed  in 
the  many,  many  years  that  very  slowly  accumulated 
about  her  and  seemed  to  bury  her  under  their  grey 
mounds!  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  nothing 
had  changed,  as  if  the  Sunday  evenings  always 
remained  the  same,  even  though  this  or  that  one 
might  be  absent  for  one  reason  or  another.  But 
sometimes,  as  to-day,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
everything,  everything  had  changed,  with  hardly 
perceptible  changes.  Did  she  alone  remain  un- 
changed? .    .    . 

She  had  now  reached  the  little  boudoir:  hardly 
any  of  the  cakes  had  been  touched;  above  them  hung 
the  fine  portrait  of  her  husband,  in  the  gold-laced 
uniform,  with  the  orders.  He  was  dead  .  .  .  and 
with  him  all  their  grandeur,  which  she  had  learnt  to 
love  because  of  him,  through  him.  .  .  .  She  wan- 
dered back  to  the  other  rooms:  there  were  portraits 
on  the  walls,  photographs  in  frames  on  the  tables 


284    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  mantelpieces.  Dead  was  the  old  family-doctor; 
as  good  as  dead  her  two  old  sisters;  dead  was  Van 
Naghel;  as  good  as  dead  Bertha,  now  so  far  away. 
Aunt  Lot,  she  still  remained,  she  still  remained, 
bearing  up  bravely,  in  spite  of  financial  disaster. 
.  .  .  Then  the  children:  they  were  all  dying  off, 
for  surely  it  was  tantamount  to  that,  when  they 
were  becoming  more  and  more  remote  from  her: 
Karel;  Adolphine;  Ernst;  even  Paul;  and  Dorine, 
her  youngest.  There  was  only  Constance  .  .  .  and 
Gerrit,  perhaps.  .  .  .  And  the  grandchildren: 
Frans,  in  Java;  Emilie  and  Henri,  in  Paris:  O  God, 
what  were  they  doing  in  Paris?  O  God,  what  was 
it,  what  was  the  matter  with  them?  For  she  sud- 
denly saw  the  boy  .  .  .  white  as  a  corpse  .  .  . 
with  his  clothes  open  .  .  .  and  a  deep,  gaping 
wound  above  his  heart,  sending  a  stream  of  purple 
blood  from  his  lung  .  .  .  while  he  lay  in  the  last 
agonies  of  death.  .  .  .  Why  did  she  see  it,  this 
strange  vision  of  a  second  or  two?  It  couldn't  be 
true,  yet  it  filled  her  with  anxiety.  .  .  .  And  in  sad 
understanding  she  nodded  her  old  head,  with  the 
dim  eyes  which  were  suddenly  seeing  visions  more 
clearly  than  reality  .  .  .  until  the  time  when  they 
would  see  nothing,  numbed  by  the  years  which  were 
slowly  accumulating  about  her.  .  .  .  Why  did  she 
see  it?  .  .  .  And,  amid  the  emptiness  of  her 
brightly-lit  drawing-room,  a  sort  of  roar  came  to  her 
from  the  distance,  from  the  distance  outside  the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    285 

room,  the  distance  outside  the  house,  the  distance 
outside  the  night,  the  very  distant  distance  of 
eternity,  the  eternity  whence  all  the  things  of  the 
future  come:  a  roar  so  overwhelming  that  it  seemed 
to  come  from  a  supernatural  sea  in  which  the  poor, 
trembling  old  woman  was  drowned,  drowned  with 
all  her  vanity  and  all  her  unimportant,  insignificant 
sorrow,  a  sea  in  which  her  very  small,  small  soul 
was  drowned,  swallowed  up  like  the  veriest  atom 
in  the  roaring,  roaring  waves;  a  roar  whose  voice 
told  her  that  it  was  coming,  that  it  was  coming,  the 
great  sorrow,  the  thing  before  which  she  trembled 
with  fear  because  she  had  long  foreseen  it  and 
because  it  would  be  so  heavy  for  her  to  bear  .  .  . 
now  that  she  was  too  old  and  too  weary  to  bear 
any  more  sorrow!  And,  with  an  unconscious  ges- 
ture, she  raised  her  trembling  old  hands  and  prayed, 
mechanically: 

"  O  God,  no  more,  no  more!  .  .  ." 
Why  must  fate  be  like  that,  so  heavy,  so  ruthless 
and  crushing?  Why  had  it  not  all  come  earlier, 
including  the  thing  which  advanced  with  such  a 
threatening  roar  and  under  which  she,  too  weary 
now,  too  weak  and  too  old,  would  succumb  when 
it  passed  over  her,  when  it  reached  her  at  last  out 
of  the  roaring,  threatening,  distant,  distant  eternity, 
wherein  all  the  things  of  the  future  are  born.  .  .  . 
But  the  roar  of  that  doom  and  her  knowledge 
of  it  lasted  no  longer  than  a  second.     And,  when 


286    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

that  second  was  past,  there  was  nothing  around  her 
but  the  empty,  brightly-lit  rooms.  It  was  eleven 
o'clock,  the  children  had  all  gone  home  and  she 
rang  for  the  servants,  to  put  out  the  lights,  to  go 
to  bed,  duly  observant  of  the  small  needs  of  her 
very  small  life,  in  spite  of  all  those  supernatural 
things  which  threatened  from  afar,  out  of 
eternity.  .    .    . 

Leaving  the  maids  occupied  in  the  empty  room, 
where  they  turned  off  the  gas  in  the  chandelier,  the 
old  woman  slowly  climbed  the  stairs,  nodding  her 
old  head  in  bitter  comprehension,  knowing  too  well, 
alas,  that  the  great  sorrow  would  come  .  .  .  even 
though,  trembling  with  fear,  she  prayed: 

"  O  God  ...  no  more,  no  morel " 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"Are  you  going  out,  Gerrit?"  asked  Adeline. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  him  come  down  the 
stairs,  dressed,  in  uniform.  He  had  spent  the 
morning  in  bed,  but  he  felt  better  now;  and  a  fever- 
ish excitement  acted  like  a  spur.  He  said,  in  answer 
to  his  wife's  question,  that  he  was  better,  played  for 
a  moment  with  Gerdy,  took  his  lunch  standing  and 
then  hurried  out  of  the  house  and  rushed  through 
a  parade  at  barracks,  where  he  was  not  expected. 
The  fever,  which  he  still  felt  sending  shivers  through 
his  great  body,  drove  him  out  of  barracks  again; 
and  he  walked  to  the  Kerkhoflaan  and  asked  Truitje 
if  there  was  any  news  of  her  master  or  mistress, 
if  Master  Addie  had  had  a  telegram  from  Paris; 
but  Truitje  didn't  know.  Then  he  tore  off  like  one 
possessed,  first  to  Otto  and  Frances'  house,  where 
he  found  Frances  and  Louise,  both  sick  with  wait- 
ing: Otto  had  gone  to  Baarn,  to  break  the  news  to 
Bertha. 

He  could  not  stay  with  the  two  women:  Frances 
wandering  from  room  to  room,  crying  helplessly; 
Louise,  calmer,  looking  after  the  children,  the  entire 
care  of  whom  she  had  taken  on  herself  since  she 
had  come  to  live  with  Otto  and  since  Frances  had 

287 


288    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

become  such  an  invalid.  Gerrit  could  not  possibly 
stay:  with  long  strides,  he  flew  to  the  Alexander- 
straat,  to  Mamma,  who  was  glad  to  see  him  well 
again  after  his  two  days'  illness.  He  found  Dorine 
with  her;  Adolphine  called,  followed  by  Cateau,  all 
obeying  an  impulse  not  to  leave  the  old  woman 
alone  in  these  days,  when  at  any  moment  Van 
der  Welcke,  Constance  and  Emilie  might  arrive 
from  Paris,  bringing  home  the  body  of  Henri,  of 
whose  death  no  one  had  telegraphed  any  details, 
much  to  the  indignation  of  Adolphine  and  Cateau. 

But,  when  Auntie  Lot  came  in,  her  small  eyes 
red  and  swollen  with  weeping,  and  cried,  "  Oh 
dear!  .  .  .  Kassian!" — an  exclamation  at  once 
hushed  by  the  children,  an  exclamation  which 
Mamma,  staring  dimly  into  space,  failed  to  under- 
stand— Gerrit  could  no  longer  endure  it  among  all 
those  overwrought  women;  and,  convinced  that 
Mamma  did  not  even  yet  know  that  Constance  and 
Van  der  Welcke  had  gone  to  Paris,  convinced  that 
the  sisters  had  not  even  paved  the  way  by  telling 
her  that  Henri  was  seriously  ill,  he  cleared  out  sud- 
denly, without  saying  good-bye,  and  rushed  into  the 
open  air,  down  the  street,  into  the  Woods,  gasping 
for  breath. 

What  was  it,  what  could  it  be,  hanging  in  the 
air?  The  clouds  seemed  to  be  bending  over  the 
town  in  pity,  an  immense,  yearning  pity  which 
turned  into  a  desperate  melancholy  while   Gerrit 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     289 

hurried  along  with  his  great  strides;  the  wintry 
trees  lifted  their  crowns  of  branches  in  melan- 
choly despair;  the  rooks  cawed  and  circled  in 
swarms;  the  bells  of  the  tram-cars  tinkled  as 
though  muffled  in  black  crape;  the  few  pedestrians 
walked  stiffly  and  unnaturally;  he  met  ague-stricken, 
black-clad  figures  with  sinister,  spectral  faces:  they 
passed  him  like  so  many  ghosts;  and  all  around  him, 
in  the  vistas  of  the  Woods,  rose  a  clammy  mist, 
in  which  every  outline  of  houses,  trees  and  people 
was  blurred  into  a  shadowy  unreality.  And  it 
seemed  to  Gerrit  as  if  he  alone  were  real  and 
possessed  a  body;  and  he  ran  and  rushed  through 
the  spectral  landscape,  through  the  hollow  avenues 
of  death. 

What  was  it  in  the  air?  Nothing,  nothing  extraor- 
dinary: it  was  winter  in  Holland;  and  the  people 
...  the  people  had  nothing  extraordinary  about 
them:  they  walked  in  thick  coats  and  cloaks,  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets,  because  it  was  cold; 
and,  because  the  mist  was  cold  and  raw,  their  eyes 
looked  fixed,  their  lips  and  noses  drawn  and  pinched 
and  they  bore  themselves  rigidly  and  spectrally 
when  they  came  towards  him  out  of  the  fog  and 
passed  him  with  those  shadowy  and  unreal  figures. 
And,  with  all  sorts  of  fever-born  images  whirling 
before  his  eyes,  like  shining  will-o'-the-wisps  in  that 
morning  mist,  his  thoughts  touched  hastily  on  every 
sort  of  subject:  he  saw  the  barracks  before  him; 


29o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Pauline;  the  Paris  train  and  Constance  and  Van  der 
Welcke  in  a  compartment  with  Henri's  coffin  be- 
tween them;  Auntie  Lot  and  Mamma;  Bertha  at 
Baarn.  He  saw  his  boyhood  at  Buitenzorg;  the 
foaming  river;  all  his  bright-haired  children.  He 
saw  a  worm,  big  as  a  dragon,  with  bristles  like 
lances  sticking  straight  out  of  its  dragon's  back.  .  .  . 

He  was  still  feverish  and  had  been  unwise  to 
get  up  and  go  out.  But  he  could  not  have  stayed 
in  bed,  he  couldn't  have  done  it:  his  feverish  ex- 
citement had  driven  him  to  the  barracks,  to  his 
mother  and  to  .  .  .  Where  was  he  going?  Was  he 
going  to  Scheveningen  ?  And  why  was  he  going 
through  the  Woods  like  that?  What  was  it  that 
constantly  impelled  him  to  keep  to  the  right,  to 
turn  up  the  paths  on  the  right,  as  though  he  were 
making  for  the  Nieuwe  Weg?  What  did  he  want 
on  the  right?  .    .    . 

Suddenly,  as  a  counteragent  to  his  fever,  he 
turned  to  the  left;  but,  on  coming  to  a  cross-road, 
he  wandered  off  to  the  right  again,  helplessly,  as 
if  he  had  forgotten  the  way.  .  .  .  There  was  the 
Ornamental  Water,  with  the  Nieuwe  Weg  behind 
it.  There  lay  the  ponds,  like  two  dull,  weather- 
worn mirrors,  under  the  sullen  pity  of  the  skies; 
and  the  rather  tame  landscape  of  the  Woods,  with 
its  wreath  of  dunes,  became  cruel,  a  tragic  pool 
surrounded  by  all  that  avenue  of  chill  death,  which 
seemed  to  be  creeping  through  the  wintry  air.  .   .  £, 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     291 

But  what  was  it  in  the  air?  Why,  there  was 
nothing,  nothing  but  the  Ornamental  Water,  in  a 
misty  haze;  the  few  villas  around  it  looming  vaguely 
out  of  the  fog;  no  pedestrians  at  all;  nothing  but 
the  familiar,  everyday,  usual  things.  .  .  .  Then 
what  impelled  him  to  wander  so  aimlessly  past  the 
Ornamental  Water  to  the  Nieuwe  Weg?  Why 
were  those  ponds  like  tragic  pools?  Was  it  not 
as  though  pale  faces  stared  out  of  them,  out  of 
those  tragic  pools,  pale,  white  faces  of  women, 
multiplied  a  hundredfold  by  strange  reflections, 
eddies  of  white  faces,  with  dank,  plastered  hair  and 
dying  eyes,  which  gleamed?  .    .    . 

Yes,  yes,  he  was  in  a  fever.  He  had  been  unwise 
to  go  out,  in  that  chill  morning  mist.  But  it  was 
rotten  to  be  ill  .  .  .  and  he  was  never  ill.  He  had 
never  said  that  he  was  ill.  He  was  a  fellow  who 
could  stand  some  knocking  about.  But  for  all  that 
he  was  feverish.  Otherwise  he  would  not  have 
seen  the  Ornamental  Water  as  a  tragic  pool  .  .  . 
with  the  white  faces  of  mermaids  .  .  .  Lord,  how 
cold  and  shivery  the  mermaids  must  feel  down  there 
in  those  chilly,  silent  pools  .  .  .  their  dying  eyes 
just  gleaming  up  with  a  single  spark!  Were  they 
dead  or  alive,  the  chilly  mermaids?  Were  their 
eyes  dying  or  were  they  ogling?  How  strangely 
they  were  all  reflected,  until  they  became  as  a 
thousand  mermaids,  until  their  faces  blossomed  like 
white  flowers  of  death  above  the  light  film  of  ice 


292    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

coating  the  pool !  Whew !  How  chill  and  cold  they 
were,  the  poor,  dead,  ogling  mermaids !  .    .    . 

Dead:  were  they  dead?  .  .  .  Were  they  ogling 
and  laughing  .  .  .  with  eyes  of  gold?  .  .  .  He 
shivered  as  though  ice-cold  water  were  trickling 
down  his  spine;  and  he  wrapped  himself  closely  in 
his  military  great-coat.  He  felt  something  hard  in 
his  breast-pocket,  a  square  piece  of  cardboard.  Yes, 
he  had  been  carrying  that  about  for  ever  so  long 
.  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  he  couldn't  do  it.  It 
was  the  photograph  of  his  children,  the  latest  group, 
taken  for  Mamma's  last  birthday.  For  weeks  he 
had  been  carrying  it  about  in  his  pocket,  in  an  en- 
velope with  an  address  on  it  .  .  .  and  yet,  yet  he 
couldn't  send  it  or  hand  it  in  at  her  door.  The 
portrait  of  all  his  children: 

"I  expect  they're  charming  kiddies,  Gerrit?" 

Gad,  how  could  she  have  asked  it,  how  could  she 
have  asked  it,  as  though  to  drive  him  mad?  .  .  . 
Whew,  how  cold  it  was!  .  .  .  He  looked  fear- 
somely  at  the  mermaids:  no,  no,  there  was  nothing, 
nothing  but  the  chilly  pool.  He  was  in  a  high  fever, 
that's  what  he  was  .  .  .  Gad,  how  could  she  ask 
such  a  thing? 

Still  .  .  .  still,  it  was  over.  She  was  no  longer 
the  girl  she  was.  She  was  finished  with,  done  for; 
she  had  lain  in  his  arms  like  a  corpse,  tired  of  her 
own  kisses,  broken  by  his  embrace,  white  as  a  sheet, 
done  for.  .    .    .  Lord,  how  rotten,  to  be  done  for 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     293 

and  still  so  young,  a  young  woman !  .  .  .  Done  for 
.  .  .  like  a  defective  machine:  Lord,  how  rotten! 
.  .  .  No,  he  couldn't  give  that  photograph  .  .  . 
of  all  his  children  .  .  .  to  a  light-o'-love.  .  .  .  He 
couldn't  do  it  .  .  .If  she  had  only  asked  for  a 
necklace  or  some  such  gaud  ...  he  would  have 
managed  somehow,  out  of  his  poverty,  to  buy  her 
a  nice  keepsake.  .  .  .  Whew,  how  raw  and  cold  it 
was!  .  .  .  The  will-o'-the-wisps  of  all  sorts  of 
images  shone  in  front  of  him;  and,  through  them, 
through  the  flames,  the  flying  Paris  express  .  .  . 
with  the  compartment,  the  coffin,  Van  der  Welcke, 
Constance,  two  motionless  figures.  And  yet  it  was 
bitterly,  clammily  cold;  he  was  chilled  to  his  mar- 
row; and  a  great  hairy  dragon  split  its  beastly 
maw  to  lick  that  chilled  marrow  with  a  fiery  tongue. 
How  big  the  filthy  brute  had  grown!  It  was  no 
longer  inside  him,  it  was  all  around  him  now:  it 
filled  the  air  with  its  wriggling  body;  it  lifted  its 
tail  among  the  wintry  boughs;  and  its  tongue  of  fire 
licked  at  Gerrit's  marrow;  and  under  that  marrow 
— how  strange ! — he  was  simply  freezing.  .  .  . 
Brrr,  brrr !  .  .  .  Lord,  how  he  was  shivering,  what 
a  fever  he  was  in !  .  .  .  Home  .  .  .  home  .  .  . 
to  bed !  .  .  .  Oh,  how  good  to  get  into  bed  .  .  . 
nice  and  warm,  nice  and  warm!  .  .  .  Still  better 
to  be  nice  and  warm  in  women's  arms  ...  no 
kissing  .  .  .  just  sleeping,  nice  and  warm!  .  .  . 
Brrr,    brrr!   ...  Lord,    Lord,    Lord,    the   water 


294    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

pouring  down  his  back!  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
shivered  like  that!  .  .  .  How  hard  that  photo- 
graph of  his  children  was !  He  felt  it  on  his  heart 
like  a  plank.  How  long  had  he  been  carrying  it 
about  with  him?  Brrr,  brrr!  He  might  just  as 
well  have  let  her  have  it :  it  was  the  only  thing  that 
she  had  asked  him  for.  .  .  .  Money  he  had  never 
given  her:  only  fifteen  guilders — brrr,  brrr! — fif — 
brrr  1 — teen — brrr ! — guilders.  .  .  .  Come,  why  not 
do  it  now?  .  .  .  Just  hand  it  in,  at  her  door — 
brrr! — and  then — brrr! — and  then — brrr! — home, 
to  bed  .   .   .  nice  and  warm  in  bed !  .   .   . 

The  thought  suddenly  took  definite  shape  and  it 
drove  him  on  along  the  Kanaal.  Here  also  the 
mist  hung  like  a  haze  over  the  water  and  the 
meadows  on  the  other  side ;  and,  shivering  and  shud- 
dering under  the  fiery  lick  of  the  dragon's  tongue, 
Gerrit  hurried  to  the  Frederikstraat.  That  was 
where  she  lived,  that  was  where  he  had  been  so 
often  lately,  until  that  last  time  when  she  had  begged 
him  not  to  come  back  again  and  to  give  her,  as  a 
keepsake,  the  portrait  .  .  .  the  portrait  of  his 
children.  He  would  leave  it  now  at  the  door.  He 
had  taken  it  in  his  hand,  because  it  lay  like  a  plank 
Dn  his  heart;  and  her  name  was  on  the  envelope. 
.  .  .  Brrr!  .  .  .  Hand  it  in  quickly  and  then — 
brrr! — nice  and  warm  in  bed. 

The  landlady  opened  the  door. 

u  Would  you  please  give  this  to  the  young  lady?  " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    295 

He  meant  to  shove  the  envelope  into  the  woman's 
hand  and  then — brrr,  brrr! — home  ...  to  bed 
.   .   .  warm  .    .    .  warm.  .    .    . 

"  Don't  you  know,  then,  where  the  young  lady 
is,  sir?  " 

14  Where  she  is?" 

14  Where  she's  gone  to?  " 

"Has  she  gone?" 

44  She  didn't  come  home  yesterday  afternoon.  I 
don't  say  I'm  anxious;  but  still  she  always  used  to 
come  home  of  an  evening.  She  owes  me  some 
money,  but  she  hasn't  run  away  ...  for  every- 
thing has  been  left  as  it  was,  upstairs:  her  clothes, 
her  bits  of  jewellery.  ..." 

44  Perhaps  she's  out  of  town.  ..." 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  only  she's  taken  nothing  with 
her." 

11  Perhaps,  all  the  same  ..." 

44  Yes  .  .  .  it's  possible.  ...  So  I'm  to  give 
her  the  envelope  .    .    .  when  she  comes?" 

44  Yes.  ...  Or  no,  no,  give  it  to  me  .  .  .  I'll 
see  to  it  myself.  ...  Or  no,  you'd  better  give  it 
her  when  she  comes  back.  .  .  .  No,  after  all,  I'll 
see  to  it.  ..." 

He  stuffed  the  envelope  into  his  pocket,  went  off. 
Brrr!  It  lay  on  his  chest  like  a  plank.  .  .  .  Where 
could  she  be  gone  to?  Where  was  Pauline  gone  to? 
Had  she  gone  out  of  town?  .  .  .  Why  hadn't  he 
simply  left  the  envelope?    Well,  you  never  knew: 


296    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

if  she  didn't  come  back,  it  would  be  there,  with  the 
photograph  of  his  children.  .  .  .  She'd  probably 
cleared  out.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  probably  cleared 
out  .  .  .  with  her  rich  young  fellow.  .  .  .  Well, 
he,  whoever  he  was,  wouldn't  remember  her  as  he 
remembered  her  in  the  old  days.  .  .  .  Brrrrrr! 
.  .  .  Lord,  Lord,  how  he  was  shivering!  .  .  . 
Oh,  to  be  in  bed !  .  .  .  When  could  Constance  and 
Van  der  Welcke  be  back?  .  .  .  Oh,  the  express! 
.  .  .  Oh,  the  coffin!  .  .  .  Oh,  the  fiery  lick  of 
the  dragon,  whose  great,  hairy  body  filled  the  whole 
grey  sky  with  its  wriggling!  .    .    . 

He  turned  down  the  Javastraat:  he  wanted  to 
hurry  home;  his  teeth  were  chattering;  he  felt  as 
if  ice-cold  water  was  dripping  from  him,  while  the 
confounded  brute  sucked  his  marrow  with  long, 
fiery  licks  of  its  tongue.  Near  the  Schelpkade,  he 
met  a  little  group  of  four  or  five  policemen:  rough 
words  sounded  loud;  their  words  sounded  so  loud 
through  the  unreality  of  the  mist  that  they  woke 
him  out  of  a  walking  sleep,  out  of  his  dream  of  the 
dragon-beast  with  the  stiff  bristles : 

"  She  was  quite  blue,"  he  heard  one  of  them  say. 

They  were  striding  along,  talking  loudly,  as  if 
something  startling  had  happened.  Gerrit  suddenly 
stood  rooted  to  the  ground: 

"  Who  was  blue?  "  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  bellow. 

The  policeman  saluted: 

"Sir?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    297 

"Who  was  blue?"  bellowed  Gerrit. 

"  A  woman,  sir.  ...  A  woman  who  drowned 
herself,  last  night,  in  the  Kanaal.  ..." 

44  A  woman?  " 

44  Yes,  sir.  My  mate  here  was  the  first  to  see  the 
body,  when  it  was  floating  with  the  face  out  of  the 
water.  Then  he  came  and  told  me;  and  we  went 
and  fetched  the  drag.   It  was  a  young  woman.  ..." 

44  And  she  was  quite  blue,  you  say?  .    .    ." 

44  Yes,  sir,  and  all  bloated:  she'd  swallowed  a  lot 
of  water.  .  .  .  We  took  the  body  to  the  cemetery 
near  the  Woods  and  we're  on  our  way  to  the  com- 
missary." 

44  To  the  cemetery?  ..." 

44  Yes,  sir.  ..." 

The  men  saluted: 

44  Sir." 

44  She  was  quite  blue,"  Gerrit  repeated  to  him- 
self. 

And  he  hurried  on  at  a  jog-trot.  Brrr,  brrr !  Oh, 
to  be  in  bed  ...  he  wanted  to  get  to  bed!  He 
was  as  cold  as  that  woman  must  have  been  last 
night,  floating  in  the  water  until  her  face  blossomed 
up  like  a  phantom  flower  of  death.  .  .  .  Brrr!  Icy 
cold  water :  wasn't  he  walking  beside  icy  cold  water 
twenty  minutes  ago?  Hadn't  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  whole  tame  landscape,  in  its  wreath  of  dunes, 
had  melted  away  into  a  hazy  unreality,  with  those 
ghostly  villas  and  trees   .    .    .   and  the  ponds  like 


298    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

tragic  pools,  in  which  were  mirrored  the  motionless, 
low,  grey  skies,  full  of  the  wriggling  of  his  giant 
worm  .  .  .  until  the  faces  of  mermaids,  with  wet, 
plastered  hair  and  gold-gleaming  eyes  had  risen  up 
like  dead  flowers,  water-lilies  of  death,  and  ogled 
him  with  the  last  quiver  of  their  dying  eyes?  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  Paris  express!  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  fever  he 
was  in!  .  .  .  He  must  go  quick  to  bed  now  .  .  . 
but,  before  he  went,  he  would  just  call  in  at  the 
Kerkhoflaan  and  ask  if  there  was  no  telegram 
from  Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance.  .  .  .  But 
how  cold  he  felt  and  how  he  was  shivering:  brrr, 
brrr!  .   .   . 

It  was  as  though  his  legs  moved  independently 
of  his  will,  propelled  by  alien  instincts,  by  energies 
outside  himself;  for  his  legs  moved  healthily, 
sturdily  and  quickly,  with  the  click-clack  of  his  sword 
knocking  against  his  thigh,  while,  above  those  sturdy 
legs,  his  body  shivered  in  the  clutch  of  the  monster, 
which  licked  and  licked  with  fiery  dabs  of  its  tongue. 
And,  above  his  body,  towered  his  head,  colossally 
large,  with  vertigos  whirling  like  tangible  circles 
around  the  huge  head  in  which  he  seemed  to  be 
carrying  a  heavy  lump  of  brains.  From  it  there  shot 
forth  the  strangest  dreams;  and  these  dreams,  to- 
gether with  the  contortions  of  the  monster,  filled 
the  whole  grey  sky  until  everything  became  one 
great  dream:  all  that  town  of  unknown  streets; 
houses;  people  who  bowed  and  nodded  to  him;  a 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     299 

couple  of  hussars,  who  saluted;  a  couple  of  officers 
whom  he  knew  and  to  whom  he  waved: 

"  Bon  jour!  " 

"  Bon  jour!  " 

And,  in  this  singular  dreaming  and  waking  and 
suffering  and  walking,  he  knew  things  which  nobody 
had  told  him,  knew  them  for  certain:  knew  that  a 
woman  had  drowned  herself  last  night  in  Paris,  in 
the  lake  in  the  Bois;  knew  that  Van  der  Welcke  and 
Constance  had  gone  to  fetch  her  body  and  were 
now  bringing  it  back  to  him  in  a  rushing  express- 
train,  but  a  train  that  came  rushing  through  the 
sky  on  whirling  aerial  rails,  cutting  through  the  con- 
tortions of  a  huge  snake-thing  which  wriggled  round 
the  clouds  and  filled  the  whole  sky.  Oh,  how  full 
the  sky  was!  For  round  the  snake  wriggled  like 
cockscrews  the  whirling  rails,  all  aslant  and  askew, 
tangled  into  iron  spirals;  and  the  express,  in  which 
Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance  sat  with  a  coffin 
between  them  containing  a  woman's  blue  corpse, 
had  to  follow  all  those  turns  and  came  rushing  and 
puffing  along  them,  constantly  curving  round  its  own 
track  and  covering  them  a  thousand  times,  as  though 
that  aerial  express  were  climbing  and  descending 
endless  wriggling  corkscrews.  Then  the  rails  and 
the  dragon-coils  were  all  tangled  together;  and  the 
rails  became  dragon-coils;  and  the  express  flew  and 
flew  along  the  twisting  dragon-thing,  flew  along 
every  curve  of  its  tail.     The  train  became  a  toy- 


3oo    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

train;  the  dragon  was  enormous  and  filled  the 
firmament;  the  town  underneath  was  a  toy-town; 
and  Gerrit  walked  and  walked  with  hurrying  legs; 
and  his  head  towered  colossally  large;  and  his 
brains  became  like  heavy  clouds:  he  saw  his  lump 
of  brains  massing  in  curling  clouds  outside  him. 
Nevertheless  he  was  propelled  by  instincts  and 
energies  of  assured  consciousness,  for,  when  he 
turned  down  the  Kerkhoflaan  and  left  the  Kerkhof, 
the  cemetery,  behind  him,  on  one  side,  he  knew 
quite  well  that  there  lay  in  it  a  blue  woman  who 
had  been  dragged  out  of  the  Kanaal  by  policemen; 
but  he  also  knew,  with  equal  certainty,  that,  up  in 
the  sky  above,  the  express  flew  and  flew  over  the 
body  of  his  dragon  and  along  its  every  curve;  and 
he  als  i  knew  that  he  was  now  standing  outside  Van 
der  Welcke's  villa:  so  small  a  house,  such  a  toy- 
house  that  Gerrit's  head  stuck  out  above  the  roof 
of  it  and  that  his  own  voice  sounded  to  him  like 
distant  thunder  as  he  asked  the  person  who  opened 
the  door: 

"Telegram?  From  your  master  and  mistress? 
Telegram?  " 

He  did  not  at  once  recognize  who  was  at  the  door 
nor  at  once  understand  the  reply : 

"Telegram?    Telegram?"  he  repeated. 

And  the  thunder  of  his  voice  sounded  distant  and 
dull  compared  with  the  rattle  of  the  express-train 
right  through  the  sky. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    301 

u  What  do  you  say?  "  he  now  repeated.  "  What 
do  you  say?  " 

14  Uncle,  are  you  ill?"  asked  Addie. 

44  111?  111?  No,  I'm  not  ill,  my  boy.  But  .  .  . 
telegram  ?    Telegram  ?  " 

44  Papa  and  Mamma  will  be  back  to-morrow  morn- 
ing; they're  bringing  Henri's  body  with  them,  Uncle; 
and  they're  bringing  Emilie;  and  I've  been  to  the 
undertaker's  ...  to  arrange  to  have  the  body 
fetched  at  the  station  at  once.  .  .  .  I've  seen  to 
everything.  .  .  .  And  I  must  go  to  all  the  uncles 
now:  to  Uncle  Karel  and  Uncle  Saetzema.  .  .  . 
I've  telegraphed  to  Otto;  I  don't  know  if  Aunt 
Bertha  will  come  or  not.  .  .  .  It's  very  sad,  Uncle, 
and  it'll  be  very  sad  for  Grandmamma  when  she 
knows  everything:  Henri  .  .  .  Henri  was  mur- 
dered; he  was  drunk,  it  seems;  and   ..." 

44  He  drowned  himself  and  he  was  quite  blue? 
n 

44  No,  Uncle,  he  was  murdered:  stabbed  with  a 
dagger.  .  .  .  Mamma  is  bearing  up,  Papa  writes, 
but  she  is  terribly  overwrought  ...  on  Emilie's 
account  also.  Emilie  is  quite  beside  herself.  Papa 
fortunately  is  keeping  calm:  he  is  doing  all  that  has 
to  be  done;  he  has  been  to  the  legation.  .  .  .  But, 
Uncle,  you're  not  at  all  well;  you're  shivering; 
you've  caught  a  chill.  Oughtn't  you  to  go  home 
and  get  into  bed?  ..." 

44  Yes,  yes,  I'm  -going  home." 


3o2    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Then  you'll  be  better  in  the  morning.  ..." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  of  course  ...  I  shall  be  bet- 
ter. 

"  Then  will  you  come  to  the  station  too,  early 
to-morrow  morning,  and  meet  the  train  from 
Paris?" 

"  To-morrow  morning  early  .  .  .  yes,  certainly, 
certainly.  .    .    ." 

"  You  oughtn't  to  have  gone  out." 

"  No,  no  .  .  .  but  I'm  going  home  now  .  .  . 
going  to  bed.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  To-morrow  morning 
early." 

"  Good-bye,  Uncle." 

Gerrit  went  away. 

Above  the  Woods,  on  one  side,  the  low  sky  sank 
lower  and  lower,  heavy  with  grey  clouds,  such  heavy 
grey  clouds  that  they  did  not  seem  light  enough  to 
continue  hovering  there,  seemed  bound  to  fall  .  .  . 
and  to  Gerrit  they  were,  in  the  dim  hues  of  his 
fevered  vision,  like  purple  pieces  falling  from  the 
dragon's  body,  which  was  cut  up  by  the  express. 
The  whole  sky  was  full  of  purple  dragon's  blood; 
and  it  now  streamed  down  like  pouring  rain.  The 
blood  streamed  in  a  violent  downpour  and  appeared 
intent  upon  drowning  everything.   .    .    . 

Gerrit  had  now  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
cemetery;  and,  impelled  by  instincts  and  forces  out- 
side himself,  he  walked  in  and,  vaguely,  asked  the 
porter  some  question,  he  did  not  know  what.    The 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     303 

man  seemed  to  understand  him,  however,  and  led 
the  way:  Gerrit  followed  .  .  .  brrr,  brrr!  .  .  . 
Nevertheless,  it  was  as  though  his  fever  abated: 
and,  in  that  sudden  cooling,  he  all  at  once  felt  and 
knew  the  truth.  It  must  be  so:  it  was  she.  The 
water,  the  policemen,  she.  Who  else  could  it  be? 
.    .    .  He  walked  on,  following  the  porter.  .    .    . 

On  either  side,  the  silent  graves,  with  their  tomb- 
stones, the  lettering  blurred  and  melancholy  in  the 
rain.  .  .  .  Yonder,  on  the  left,  the  family-grave. 
Gerrit  recognized  it  in  the  purple  rain  of  dragon's 
blood:  a  sombre  mausoleum  of  brick,  like  a  small 
house;  and  it  looked  larger  to  him  than  the  toy- 
villa  of  just  now.  What  a  huge  building  it  was,  that 
family-tomb  of  theirs!  It  was  like  a  great  palace: 
it  would  be  able  to  contain  all  their  dead  within 
its  walls.  For  the  present,  Papa  was  living  alone 
there,  quietly;  but  he  was  waiting,  waiting  for  all 
of  them,  waiting  for  all  of  them  .  .  .  until  the 
shadows  had  deepened  into  thick  darkness  around 
all  of  them  and  they  came  to  him,  in  that  huge 
sepulchral  palace.  .  .  .  Lord,  Lord,  how  small  he 
was  now :  he  was  walking  like  a  dwarf  past  the  tomb, 
which  stuck  its  steeple  into  the  clouds,  high  as  a 
cathedral.   .    .    . 

What  was  that  strangeness  in  the  air?  .  .  ,. 
How  long  had  he  been  walking?  .  .  .  Was  life  no 
longer  ordinary?  .  .  .  Were  there  not,  as  usual, 
houses,  people,  things:  the  barracks  ...  his  child- 


3o4    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

ren  .  .  .  Adeline?  .  .  .  Who  was  that  man  who 
went  before  and  led  the  way?  .  .  .  Was  it  a  real 
man,  that  porter?  ...  Or  was  it  a  dead  man, 
walking?  .  .  .  Wasn't  everything  dead  here?  .  .  . 
Was  it  morning  or  was  it  evening?  .  .  .  Was  it 
life  or  death?  .  .  .  Was  he  alive  or  was  he  dead? 
.  .  .  Brrr,  how  cold  he  felt  again !  .  .  .  Was  that 
the  cold  of  death?  .  .  .  What  was  this  building 
which  they  now  entered?  .  .  .  What  a  huge  place! 
.  .  .  Was  it  a  church  or  was  it  only  a  tomb  ?  .  .  . 
Where  was  he  and  why  was  he  alone,  alone  with 
that  dead  man,  that  ghost  showing  him  the  way? 
.  .  .  Where  on  earth  was  Constance  and  where 
was  Van  der  Welcke?  .  .  .  Hadn't  they  brought 
it  back  from  Paris,  Pauline's  blue  body?  .  .  .  Was 
that  Pauline?  .    .    . 

The  coffin  was  open,  covered  only  with  a  sheet; 
he  lifted  it,  the  sheet.  .  .  .  Brrr,  brrr,  how  cold 
he  was!  .  .  .  He  remembered:  Paris;  yes,  yes,  he 
remembered:  Paris;  poor  fellow;  poor  Henri!  .  .  . 
But  this,  this  wasn't  Henri.  .  .  .  Who  was  it,  who 
could  it  be?  .  .  .  Wasn't  it  Henri  the  policemen 
found?  .  .  .  What  had  become  of  those  police- 
men? .  .  .  When  was  it  he  met  some  policemen? 
...  It  was  years  since  he  met  those  police- 
men .  .  .  and  her  body  had  turned  quite  blue. 
.  .  .  What  was  the  matter  now?  .  .  .  What 
was  that  porter  saying,  hovering  round  him  like  a 
ghost?  .    .  ... 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    305 

Yes,  everything  was  dead,  for  the  shivering  cold 
which  he  felt  could  only  be  the  cold  shiver  of 
death.   .    .    . 

Blue,  was  she  blue?  .  .  .  The  man  lifted  a  corner 
of  the  sheet:  Gerrit  saw  a  face,  pale  as  that  of  a 
mermaid  whose  features  had  blossomed  up  out  of 
the  icy  stillness  of  a  tragic  pool.  .  .  .  The  eyes 
were  open.  .  .  .  What  sad  golden  eyes  those  were! 
.  .  .  Had  they  not  always  laughed  .  .  .  with 
golden  gleams  of  mockery?  .  .  .  Then  why  did  he 
now  for  the  first  time  see  them  weeping  ...  in 
death  ...  see  them  mournfully  staring  ...  in 
death?  .  .  .  Had  they  never  laughed?  .  .  .  Had 
they  always  gazed  mournfully  .  .  .  even  though 
they  gleamed  golden  and  mocked  ...  or  seemed 
to  .  .  .  seemed  to?  .  .  .  Then  what  was  real?  .  .  . 
Was  everything  .  .  .  was  everything  dead  then? 
.  .  .  Did  he  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  want  to  bring  her 
his  gift  .  .  .  what  she  had  asked  for  so  strangely 
.  .  .  the  portrait  .  .  .  the  portrait  of  his  chil- 
dren? .  .  .  He  had  it  here:  he  felt  it  lying  on  his 
chest  .  .  .  hard  and  heavy  .  .  .  like  a  plank,  like 
a  plank  ...  He  had  it  here.  .    .    . 

"Gerrit,  dear,  are  you  coming ?" 

Who  was  calling  him  from  so  very  far  away? 
.  .  .  Wasn't  it  his  sister?  .  .  .  His  favourite 
sister?  .    .    . 

"  Come  along,  Gerrit  I  M 

Who   were   those   calling  him   away    from   that 


3o6    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

woman?  .  .  .  What  were  those  voices,  which  he 
vaguely  recognized?  .  .  .  Was  it  not  the  voice  of 
his  favourite  sister,  was  it  not  the  voice  of  her  hus- 
band, of  the  two  of  them,  who  had  brought  Pauline's 
body  back  from  Paris?  .  .  .  Yes,  he  recognized 
them,  it  was  .    .    . 

"  Come  on,  Gerrit,  old  man,  you're  not  well. 
.  .  .  What  are  you  doing  here,  beside  this  woman, 
beside  this  corpse?  She's  all  blue,  drowned  in  the 
lake  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  .  .  .  Did  you  know 
the  woman?  ... 

r 

Yes,  yes,  he  had  known  the  woman.   .    .    ... 

"  Come  along,  old  chap !  " 

"Gerrit,  dear,  won't  you  come?" 

"  Constance,"  whispered  Gerrit,  "  you  brought 
her  from  Paris  ..." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir?"  asked  the  porter. 

"Yes,  there  she  lies,  there  she  lies,  dead.  .    .    ." 

"  Gerrit,  come  away !  "  cried  the  voices. 

"  Lay  your  flowers  over  her  now !  .  .  .  Con- 
stance, lay  your  flowers  over  her.  .  .  .  She  is  lying 
so  cold  and  all  alone  .  .  .  and  it  is  all  so  big 
here  .  .  .  big  as  a  church  .  .  .  she  is  lying  .  .  . 
as  if  in  a  cold,  damp  church.  .  .  .  Lay  flowers 
beside  her  ..." 

"  What  do  you  say,  sir?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  lay  flowers  beside  her  .  .  .  lay 
flowers  beside  her  .    .    .   Constance  .    .  ..." 

"Won't  you  come  away  now?" 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    307 

4  *  Yes,  yes,  I'm  coming.  .    .    ." 

There,  there  she  lay  .  .  .  covered  all  over,  with 
the  sheet.  She  was  nothing  but  a  blue,  motionless 
woman's  shape  .  .  .  under  a  sheet.  Now  .  .  . 
flowers  lay  over  the  sheet:  all  the  white  flowers  of 
his  imagination.  Now  his  fingers  tore  into  little 
pieces  the  plank  which  he  carried  on  his  heart  and 
strewed  them  in  between  the  flowers:  into  such  little, 
little  pieces  that  they  were  as  the  petals  of  flowers 
.   .   .  and  nothing  more  .   .   .  over  the  woman.  .   .   . 

The  voices  called  him. 

41  Yes,  yes,  I'm  coming  .    .    .  I'm  coming  .    .    ." 

The  voices  lured  him  home,  to  bed;  and  he 
jogged  on  through  the  streets  raining  with  dragon's 
blood.   .    .    . 

When  he  reached  home,  Adeline  at  once  sent  for 
the  doctor.   ...   It  was  typhoid  fever. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Next  morning,  in  a  mist,  a  drizzly  mist,  the 
relations  met  at  the  railway-station:  Otto  van 
Naghel;  Karel;  Van  Saetzema;  Uncle  Ruyvenaer, 
just  back  from  India;  Paul;  Addie.  They  moved 
about,  in  the  waiting-room,  on  the  platform,  with 
gloomy  faces  and  upturned  coat-collars,  waiting 
for  the  train,  which  was  late,  which  would  not 
arrive  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty 
minutes. 

"  Does  Grandmamma  know  about  it  yet?  "  Uncle 
Ruyvenaer  asked  Addie. 

"  No,  Uncle.  No  one  liked  to  tell  her.  I  believe 
the  uncles  and  aunts  would  really  prefer  to  keep  it 
from  her  altogether." 

"  That's  impossible." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  very  difficult,  Uncle.  Grand- 
mamma might  hear  it  from  an  outsider.  .  .  .  She 
has  friends  who  call  to  see  her." 

"  Is  Emilie  coming?  " 

"  Yes,  Uncle.     She'll  stay  with  us." 

"Is  Uncle  Gerrit  very  ill?" 

"  Yes,  Uncle,  very  ill  indeed." 

"Does  Grandmamma  know  he's  ill?" 

"  No." 

308 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     309 

"  The  children  are  now  all  out  of  the  house,  aren't 
they?    We've  got  Alex  and  Guy  with  us." 

11  And  we  have  Adeletje,  Gerdy  and  Constance. 
The  three  little  ones  are  at  Otto's:  Louise  came 
and  fetched  them.  Marietje  is  with  Aunt  Adol- 
phine." 

11  Has  Aunt  Adeline  any  one  to  help  her?  " 

"  There  are  two  male  nurses,  Uncle.  Uncle 
Gerrit  is  very  violent  in  his  delirium." 

44  Oughtn't  the  train  to  be  here  soon?  " 

"  It's  overdue  now." 

44  It's  a  very  sad  affair.  And  how  people  will 
talk !  Yes,  how  people  will  talk  1  Lord,  Lord,  how 
they're  going  to  talk !  " 

44  Here  comes  the  train,  Uncle." 

The  train  steamed  slowly  into  the  station,  like  a 
grey  ghost  of  a  train  through  the  ghostly,  drizzling 
mist;  and  the  waiting  relations  saw  Constance,  Van 
der  Welcke  and  Emilie  get  out,  Emilie  leaning 
heavily  upon  Constance.  Then  came  the  dreary, 
dreary  task  of  taking  possession  of  the  coffin.  The 
hearse  was  waiting  outside.  And  it  all  went  as  in 
a  dream,  in  the  ghostly,  drizzling  mist.   .    .    . 

44  How  people  will  talk!"  Uncle  Ruyvenaer 
whispered  to  Karel  and  Van  Saetzema,  with  whom 
he  was  sitting  in  the  second  coach. 

44  Yes,  it's  a  damned  rotten  business." 

44  It's  not  over-respectable   ..." 

44  Having  a  nephew  who  becomes  a  clown  .   .   ," 


310    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

44  And  then,  it  seems,  goes  and  gets  murdered  in 
Paris  .   .    ." 
"  For  a  girl?" 

44  Yes  .   .   .  some  obscure  story  about  a  girl  .   .   . 
in  Paris." 

"  I  thought  he  had  committed  suicide?  " 
44  We    really    don't    know    anything.     Constance 
wrote  no  particulars." 

"  In  any  case,  it's  not  over-respectable." 
14 1  call  it  a  damned  rotten  business." 
44  Constance  has  gone  on  ahead  with  Emilie." 
"  Yes.    What  a  sight  Emilie  looked!  " 
44  Very  odd,  that  sister  and  brother." 
44  Yes,  it  was  because  of  him  that  she  left  her 
husband.    And  now — no  doubt  through  his  own  im- 
prudence— stabbed,  I  suppose  .    .    .  ?  " 
44  Unless  he  committed  suicide." 
"  Van  Raven,  after  all,  was  a  decent  fellow." 
"Van  Raven?    I  believe  you!     Van  Raven  was 
a  very  decent  fellow." 

44  Those  young  Van  Naghels  never  had  a  sensible 
bringing-up.  ..." 

44  No,  I  bring  my  boys  up  very  differently." 
44  Ah,  but  then  they're  fine  boys!  " 
"  Is  Van  der  Welcke  in  the  first  coach?  " 
14  Yes,  with  Otto,  Paul  and  Addie." 
14  Then    why    did    they    put    us    in    the    second 
coach?" 

44  Perhaps  it  was  a  mistake." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    311 

" 1  daresay,  but  it's  not  the  thing.  Uncle  ought 
to  be  in  the  first  coach. " 

"  Yes;  and  you  too,  Karel." 

"  Yes;  and  you  too,  Saetzema,  of  course." 

11  Well  ...  I  daresay  it's  a  mistake.  The  thing 
wasn't  arranged.   ..." 

"No;  but  when  Van  der  Welcke  has  to  arrange 
a  thing  .    .    .  !  " 

"  It  was  that  young  bounder  who  arranged 
things." 

"Addie?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Oh,  so  that  young  bounder  arranged  things !  " 

"Look  here,  what  are  we  to  say  to  Mamma?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  intend  to  mention  it.  For  that 
matter,  I  know  nothing." 

"  Nor  I.     The  women  had  better  do  it." 

"  But  they're  too  much  upset." 

11  The  best  thing  will  be  not  to  say  anything." 

"  Yes,  it's  best  not  to  say  anything  to  Mamma." 

"Lord,  what  a  day!  .  .  .  And  to  have  to  ride 
for  an  hour  in  this  weather  at  a  foot's  pace  .  .  . 
behind  the  body  of  an  undergraduate  who  has  been 
sent  down  from  Leiden  and  must  needs  run  away 
to  Paris  with  his  sister  and  become  a  circus- 
clown   ..." 

"  And  go  getting  murdered  into  the  bargain !  But 
we  mustn't  tell  anybody  that.  No,  no,  we  won't 
speak    about    it.     We'll    merely    say    that    he    was 


3i2    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

taken  ill.  After  all,  it's  a  rotten  incident  .  .  .] 
for  us.7' 

"  Yes,  it's  very  rotten  for  us." 

11  Lord,  Lord,  how  people  will  jabber!  " 

44  Of  course  they  will." 

44  Of  course  they  will." 

"  If  things  con-tin-ue  like  this  .  .  .  /  shall  leave 
the  Hague,"  said  Karel.    "  Ca-teau  said  so  too" 

He  copied  his  wife's  voice :  he  always  copied  her 
voice,  unconsciously,  when  he  talked  about  her. 

"  Are  we  nearly  there?  " 

44  No  such  luck!" 

"Lord,  what  a  day!  .    .    ." 

"  How  people  will  talk!  ..." 

The  carriage  containing  Constance  had  driven  on 
ahead  of  the  procession.  Emilie  leant  against  her, 
feebly  and  listlessly,  without  speaking  or  hearing. 
When  they  approached  the  Kerkhoflaan,  Emilie 
said: 

"  Auntie  .   .   .  it's  just  stupid  chance.  ..." 

44  What,  dear?" 

44  Is  this  life?  My  life  has  never  been  anything 
but  stupid  chance !  The  little  pleasure  I  had  ... 
and  the  sorrow  .  .  .  was  all  stupid  chance!  I  am 
now  so  miserable;  and  it's  all  .  .  .  all  stupid 
chance!  .  .  .  Oh,  Auntie,  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
live  .  .  .  not  now,  when  Henri's  death  will  always 
.  .  .  will  always  haunt  me  like  an  accusing  ghost! 
.    .    .  Auntie  ...  do  other  people  have  so  much 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     313 

stupid  chance  in  their  lives?  .  .  .  If  I  hadn't  gone 
to  Paris!  ...  If  Henri  had  not  ...  oh,  I  can't 
say  it,  I  can't  say  it!  Auntie,  we  shall  never  know! 
It's  too  awful,  what  happened!  I  can  never  tell  you 
.    .    .  what  I  think!  " 

"  My  darling,  I  suspect  it!  " 

44  Oh,  it's  awful,  awful !  Uncle  suspects  it  too 
...  so  they  do  at  the  legation.  .  .  .  It's  awful, 
awful!  .  .  .  He's  disappeared:  Eduard,  I  mean. 
...  It  was  a  mere  accident:  we  were  walking  to- 
gether, Henri  and  I,  when  we  .  .  .  when  we  met 
Eduard.  .  .  .  They  looked  at  each  other.  .  .  . 
They  hated  each  other.  .  .  .  Then  he  walked  on 
.  .  .  but  we  met  him  again  later.  .  .  .  Then,  in 
the  evening,  when  I  came  home  .  .  .  and  found 
Henri  .    .    .  lying  in  his  blood  .    .    .  !  " 

She  flung  herself  back  with  a  scream. 

44  Auntie,  Auntie,  we  know  nothing!  .  .  .  But 
the  suspicion  will  always  be  with  me!  I  shall  al- 
ways see  it  like  that!  Oh,  Auntie,  Auntie,  help 
me  .  .  .  and  keep  me  with  you  always,  al- 
ways! ..." 

She  closed  her  eyes  in  Constance'  arms,  too  weak 
to  face  her  life,  which  had  changed  from  fantastic 
humour  into  tragedy.  .  .  .  The  carriage  suddenly 
stopped,  in  the  Kerkhoflaan;  Truitje  opened  the 
door;  Constance  made  a  sign  to  her  to  ask  no  ques- 
tions.   She  herself,  on  the  other  hand,  asked: 

44  How  is  Mr.  Gerrit  doing?  M 


3i4    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Not  at  all  well,  ma'am." 

"Where  are  the  children?" 

"They're  in  the  dining-room,  ma'am,  playing: 
it's  easier  there  for  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  them." 

Constance  opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room, 
with  her  arm  round  Emilie.  She  saw  Gerdy  and 
Constant;  but,  just  as  in  the  drawing-room  at  home, 
they  had  hidden  behind  a  sofa  standing  aslant, 
where  they  were  quietly  playing  at  father  and 
mother,  worshipping  each  other  like  a  little  husband 
and  wife,  two  small  birds  in  a  little  nest. 

"  Peek-a-boo !  "  said  Constance,  mechanically. 

They  were  quiet  at  first  and  then  burst  into 
chuckles,  crept  out,  kissed  Auntie  and  Emilie: 

"Auntie,"  asked  Gerdy,  "is  Papa  ill?" 

"  Yes,  darling." 

"  Will  Papa  get  better  very  soon?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  dear!" 

"  Are  we  staying  with  you  long?  " 

"  No,  not  very  long,  darling." 

And  Constance  did  not  know  why,  but  she  sud- 
denly saw  the  children  staying  on;  and  this  vision 
was  mingled  with  a  vague  impression  of  the  gloomy 
house  at  Driebergen.  She  thought  that  her  brain 
must  be  very  tired  in  her  head,  that  she  was  sleeping 
while  awake,  dreaming  as  she  moved  about.  Every- 
thing before  her  was  confused:  that  terrible  day  in 
Paris;  Henri's  body;  the  mystery  about  the  whole 
affair,  with  the  dark,  half-uttered  suspicions;  the 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     315 

formalities;  the  legation;  the  journey  back:  oh,  she 
was  dead-tired,  dead-tired!  .  .  .  Oh,  that  coffin, 
that  coffin !  .  .  .  And  in  the  middle  of  it  all  a  letter 
from  Addie:  Uncle  Gerrit  seriously  ill;  the  children 
ordered  out  of  the  house;  he  was  taking  Gerdy  and 
Constant  and  giving  them  his  room:  he  was  sure 
Mamma  would  approve.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  dead-tired, 
how  dead-tired  she  was!  .    .    . 

11  Auntie/'  said  Constant,  "  Truitje  has  been  so 
kind:  she  made  us  a  lovely  rice-pudding.  ..." 

44  But  we'd  rather  be  at  home !  "  said  Gerdy. 

And  the  children  suddenly  began  to  cry.  Con- 
stance took  them  in  her  arms,  pressed  them  to  her: 

44  You  would  be  just  a  little  in  Mamma's  way," 
she  said,  with  a  dead  voice.  44  Mamma  must  look 
after  Papa.  ..." 

And  she  dropped  almost  fainting  into  a  chair. 

44  Aunt  Constance !  "  Emilie  sobbed.  44  Aunt 
Constance,  let  me  ...  let  me  ..  .  stay  with  you ! 
.  .  .  Let  me  stay  with  you!  .  .  .  Where  .  .  . 
where  could  I  go?" 

She  sobbed  wildly,  huddled  on  the  floor  against 
Constance'  knees.  The  children  were  also  crying. 
Constance  had  put  one  arm  round  Emilie  and  held 
the  children  in  the  other.  It  was  very  gloomy  out 
of  doors.  Indoors,  life's  tragedy  lay  heavy  upon 
them. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  gigantic  beast  wriggled  through  the  sky,  from 
end  to  end  of  the  vast  sky.  The  beast  wobbled  the 
point  of  its  tail  slowly  up  and  down  over  the  earth : 
in  the  room,  above  the  bed,  which  had  become  a 
narrow  coffin;  and,  commencing  with  that  wobbling 
tail,  the  beast's  body  wound  up  and  up,  filling  the 
room  and  the  house  with  one  mighty  contortion  of 
monstrous  dragon's  scales  and  sweeping  away  with 
its  tangible  reality  all  the  dreamy  unreality  of  the 
room  and  the  house,  the  ceilings  and  roofs.  With 
thousands  of  legs  the  beast  humped  its  sinuous  body 
over  the  chimney-stacks  and  church-steeples,  slung 
itself  wriggling  round  the  church-steeples  and 
chimney-stacks  like  a  festoon  of  scales,  which  then 
turned  into  a  long,  dense  chain  of  clouds,  filling 
the  sky  with  great  cloud-eddies,  which  whirled  and 
whirled  over  the  town  and  through  the  sky,  from 
end  to  end  of  the  vast  sky.  And  the  monstrous 
beast  now  lifted  its  long  crocodile's  jaws  out  of  its 
own  winding  clouds;  and  its  eyes  belched  forth  fire 
like  volcanoes;  and  shafts  of  flame  shot  like 
lightning-flashes  from  its  darting  tongue:  shafts 
darting  to  such  a  length  from  the  very  high  expanse, 
right  up  there,  up  there,  from  the  sky  above  the 

316 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     317 

clouds,  that  they  shot  through  the  man  in  one  second 
and  retreated  and  hid  themselves  again  in  the  abyss 
of  the  dragon's  mouth,  from  such  a  height  indeed 
that  they  shot  quicker  than  lightning  right  down  to 
his  marrow,  licking  it  until  it  dried  up;  and,  after 
each  burning  lick,  after  each  dab  of  fire,  the 
lightning-quick,  darting  flame,  the  miles-long  shaft 
withdrew  to  its  own  source  and  birthplace  in  the 
deep  funnel  of  the  fiery  jaws.  And  the  martyred 
man  shivered  under  the  dabbing  lick;  and  in  his 
shivering  he  raised  himself  high  as  though  upon 
waves  of  trembling,  as  though  his  fever  were  a 
stormy  sea  that  bore  him  away  from  his  bed  high 
above  the  clouds,  the  clouds  that  were  the  windings 
of  the  beast's  body.  .  .  .  And,  as  he  rose,  as  the 
man  rose,  the  beast  set  up  all  its  stiff  bristles,  which 
stuck  out  between  its  scales  like  trees,  stuck  them 
up  and  drew  them  in  again,  until  the  whole  sky, 
the  whole  vast  stretch  of  sky,  was  all  the  time 
growing  full  of  tree-trunks,  straight  forests  of 
dragon's  bristles  which  swarmed  and  vanished, 
swarmed  and  vanished  as  the  beast  put  them  out 
or  drew  them  in.  .  .  .  And  the  point  of  the  beast's 
bristly,  scaly  tail  flicked  with  such  oppressive  weight 
upon  the  chest  of  the  man  who  lay  in  the  bed  which 
was  a  coffin  that  the  man  moaned  and  groaned  and 
tried  with  both  hands  to  lift  that  heavy,  flicking  tail 
from  his  crushed  heart.  .  .  .  But  the  beast  grinned 
with  its  cavernous  jaws,  shot  fire  from  the  volcanoes 


318    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

of  its  eyes,  darted  swiftly  up  and  down  the  miles- 
long  fiery  trail  of  its  all-penetrating  tongue,  split  into 
myriad  needles  of  fire,  and  with  long  voluptuous 
licks  sucked  away  the  man's  marrow,  until  the  man, 
all  shivering  and  shaking,  was  scorched  and  roasted 
and  shrivelled  within.  .  .  .  The  beast  left  him  no 
blood,  licked  up  his  marrow  and  blood  and  poured 
fire  into  him  instead.  When  the  beast  smacked  its 
lips  voluptuously,  when  it  greedily  swallowed  the 
blood  and  the  marrow,  when  the  man  thought  that 
he  was  dying,  then  the  beast  pricked  him  with  a 
needle  of  its  fiery  tongue  and  goaded  him  to 
shivering-point;  and  the  man  shivered  and  raised 
himself  high  upon  the  waves  with  his  shivering,  as 
though  his  fever  were  a  stormy  sea.  .    .    . 

Thus  the  man  lay  twisting  and  tossing,  till  he 
put  out  his  hands  towards  the  demon  and  tried  to 
fight  the  beast  with  human  hands.  .  .  .  And  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  flinging  his  hands,  the 
hands  of  a  brave  man  and  a  martyr  and  a  hero, 
around  the  beast;  and,  while  the  stormy  sea,  the 
sky,  which  was  churned  into  billows  by  the  contor- 
tions of  the  beast,  bore  him  up  and  up  and  up,  he 
fought  and  wrestled  with  the  ever  more  violently 
writhing  and  coiling  beast;  and  the  beast  humped  its 
way  through  the  sombre  universe  of  clouds,  shoot- 
ing out  its  thousands  of  feet;  its  head  was  now 
here,  now  there;  its  tail  flicked  now  high,  now  low; 
the  beast  lashed  earth  and  sky;  the  beast  became 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    319 

one  vast,  dizzying  whirl,  with  town,  spires,  roofs 
and  chimney-stacks  all  whirling  in  it;  the  bed  which 
was  a  coffin  was  now  here,  now  there,  now  high, 
now  low;  and  he  fought  and  wrestled  and  twisted 
round  the  beast  and  the  beast  round  him;  and  he 
would  not  let  himself  be  conquered  by  the  beast. 
Until  the  beast  from  out  of  the  volcano  of  its  eyes 
and  the  abyss  of  its  jaws  belched  so  much  fire  that 
the  sky  was  a  sea  of  blood-fire  wherein  a  hell  of 
faces  flamed — faces  of  women  and  children:  naked 
women  with  eyes  of  gold;  bright  children  with 
flaxen  hair — like  a  sudden  flowering  of  tortured  af- 
fections, of  tortured  passions,  all  blossoming  up  in 
the  blood-fire  into  faces  of  laughing  and  crying 
children  and  ogling  siren-mermaids;  and  through 
it  all  and  through  them  all  the  man  writhed  and 
wrestled  with  the  wrestling,  writhing  beast,  which 
could  not  free  itself  from  him,  even  as  he  could  not 
free  himself  from  the  beast.  .   .   . 

44  Gerrit,  dear  Gerrit,"  voices  sounded,  soft- 
murmuring,  earthly  voices,  voices  from  far  below, 
11  Gerrit,  dear,  are  you  coming?  " 

And  he  answered: 

"Yes  .    .    .  yes  .    .    .  I'm  coming.   ..." 

And  he,  the  man  heaving  up  and  down,  down  and 
up,  on  the  mighty  swaying  of  the  storm,  down  and 
up,  up  and  down,  he,  this  heaving,  wrestling  man, 
one  with  the  beast  and  the  beast  one  with  him,  saw 
a  woman,  between  the  faces  of  children  and  women, 


32o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

saw  two  women,  two  women  belonging  to  him:  his 
wife  and  his  sister.  But  in  between  them  crept  a 
third  woman;  and  her  eyes  mocked  like  golden  eyes 
of  mockery  .  .  .  until  suddenly  they  ceased  to  mock 
and  died  away  in  sadness,  in  unutterable  sadness, 
as  though  really  they  had  always  been  sad  and  had 
never  mocked  or  laughed. 

"  Gerrit  .  .  .  dear  Gerrit  .  .  .  are  you  com- 
ing?" 

"  Yes  .   .   .  yes  .   .   .  I'm  coming.  ..." 
"  He's  delirious,"  whispered  Constance. 

The  room  around  the  sick  man  had  now  become 
as  glass,  but  not  transparent  glass.  For  he  no 
longer,  through  the  walls  of  the  room,  saw  the 
universe  and  the  beast:  he  saw  nothing  now  save 
the  room;  but  so  brittle  was  that  room,  so  brittle 
all  the  things  which  it  contained  that  it  seemed  to 
be  all  of  glass — the  room,  the  bed  and  he — all 
glass,  all  brittle  glass,  which  a  single  incautious 
movement  might  shiver  into  dust.  Yes,  now  that 
the  beast  had  sucked  up  all  his  marrow  with  that 
voluptuous  licking,  it  had  let  him  go,  left  him  lying 
exhausted  on  his  bed;  and  he  lay,  his  glass  body  lay 
powerless  to  move ;  and,  now  that,  after  a  long  time, 
he  had  laboriously  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his  room 
around  him  as  glass  and  felt  himself  as  glass,  he 
knew  that  the  beast  would  no  longer  dart  the  fiery 
shafts  of  his  tongue,  because  it  had  eaten  the  whole 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     321 

of  him  up.  His  body  lay  lifeless,  like  a  glass  husk; 
and  he  asked  himself  if  he  wasn't  dead.  He  did  not 
know  for  certain  that  he  was  alive.  He  saw  that 
the  room  was  very  quiet;  beside  him,  in  the  glass 
atmosphere  of  his  room,  sat  a  man,  who  also  seemed 
made  of  brittle  glass;  and  the  man  sat  motionless: 
he  seemed  to  be  sitting  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
reading  in  the  glassy  twilight  that  filtered  through 
the  close-drawn  window-curtains.   .    .    . 

The  sick  man  laboriously  closed  his  eyes  again; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  sank  away  very  slowly, 
into  a  great,  downy  abyss,  lower  and  lower,  a  very 
depth  of  down,  into  which  he  sank  and  went  on 
sinking,  sank  and  went  on  sinking.  .    .    . 

11  There's  less  fever  now,"  said  the  military 
doctor.     "  He's  asleep." 

"  Is  he  out  of  danger?  "  asked  the  pale  little  wife, 
who  sat  with  Constance'  arms  around  her. 

M  Yes.  .  .  .  You  would  be  wise  to  take  a  rest, 
mevrouw." 

"I  can't  ...  I  can't.   ..." 

11  Go  and  get  some  sleep,  Adeline,"  said  Con- 
stance. "  I'll  stay  in  the  room  with  Gerrit;  and  the 
nurse  will  keep  a  good  watch." 

"  He  looked  round  for  a  moment  very  peacefully, 
before  he  fell  asleep,"  said  the  male  nurse  by 
Gerrit's  bedside. 

"Go  and  get  some  sleep,  Adeline.  .    .   ." 


322     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

How  long  the  sick  man  sank  and  sank  and  sank 
in  the  downy  abyss  no  one  knew.  ...  At  last  he 
opened  his  eyes  again  and  looked  into  the  room 
and  saw  the  quiet  attendant  sitting  on  a  chair  at 
the  foot  of  his  bed,  where  he  also  saw  a  woman 
standing: 

"  Constance,"  the  sick  man  murmured. 

He  tried  to  smile  because  he  knew  her,  but  he 
felt  too  weak  to  smile. 

.  Another  woman  appeared  beside  the  first:  he 
knew  her  too,  but  it  was  as  though  she  were 
dead.  .    .   . 

"  Line,"  murmured  the  sick  man. 

"  He  knows  us,"  whispered  Constance. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Gerrit  made  progress  every  day.  He  was  now  so 
much  better  that  he  sat  in  a  big  chair,  sat  dozing 
until  he  sank  away  in  the  downy  abyss  and  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair.  He  was  now  so  much  better 
that  he  was  able  to  speak  a  few  words  to  the  two 
women  and  the  doctor  and  the  nurse;  and  his  first 
question  was: 

M  The  children  .    .    .  ?  " 

He  had  understood  that  they  were  not  there  and 
that  he  would  not  see  them  just  yet. 

He  was  now  so  much  better  that  he  remembered 
his  recent  life  and  asked: 

"  Pauline  .   .   .  ? " 

And  he  saw  that  they  did  not  understand.  Why 
they  did  not  understand  he  failed  to  see,  for,  when 
he  asked  after  the  children  or  Mamma,  they  always 
understood  and  answered  kindly,  telling  him  that 
Mamma  and  the  children  were  well. 

Then  he  asked: 

"  Your  husband,  Constance  .  ..  .  ?  Your  boy 
.  ?" 

And  Constance  answered  that  they  were  well. 

Then  he  asked: 

"  Pauline  .    .    .  ?  " 

333 


324    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And  she  gave  a  gentle,  smiling  nod. 

Yes,  of  course,  she  understood  now,  told  him  that 
Pauline  was  well. 

Yes,  yes,  he  remembered:  Mamma,  the  children, 
Pauline.  .  .  .  They  were  as  ghosts  in  his  empty 
memory,  looming  up  and  making  him  ask  questions 
of  the  women  around  him.  But,  apart  from  that, 
his  memory  was  one  vast  emptiness,  like  an  empty 
universe,  now  that  the  beast  had  vanished  into  space 
.   .   .  into  nothingness  .    .   .  into  nothingness.  .   .   . 

He  had  no  marrow  left :  the  beast  would  not  eat 
him  up  any  more.  There  was  no  centipede  rooting 
at  his  carcase  now.  Lord,  Lord,  how  done  he  felt, 
how  utterly  done  for!   .    .    . 

He  now  recognized  his  doctor: 

"  Ah,  is  that  you,  Alsma  ?  " 

"  Well,  Van  Lowe,  do  you  recognize  me?  " 

"Yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Didn't  I  recognize  you  be- 
fore?" 

"  No  .  .  .  once  or  twice  you  didn't  know  who  I 
was.  .  .  .  Well,  you'll  soon  be  all  right  again  now. 
You're  getting  better  every  day.  ..." 

uYes,  yes  .    .    .  but  .    .    ." 

"What?" 

"I  feel  very  queer  .    .    .  damned  queer.  .    .    ." 

"Yes,  you're  a  bit  weak  still.   ..." 

"A  bit  weak?  .    .    ." 

He  gave  a  grin.  He  felt  his  arm,  thought  it 
odd  that  he  couldn't  find  his  biceps: 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     325 

44  Where's  the  thing  got  to?"  he  asked.  u  Is  it 
gone?  .    .    ." 

44  No,  you'll  get  your  strength  back  all  right. 
...  It  doesn't  take  long,  once  you're  well  again." 

44  Oh,  it  doesn't  take  long?" 

44  No,  you'd  be  surprised.  ..." 

44 1  say,  Alsma,  can't  I  see  my  children  .  .  .  just 
for  once?  ..." 

44  No,  it  would  tire  you  a  bit.  .  .  .  Later  on, 
later  on.  ..." 

4<  I  say,  do  you  know  what's  so  rotten?  I  don't 
know  ...  all  sorts  of  things  .  .  .  whether  I've 
been  dreaming  ...  or  not.  ..." 

44  Don't  worry  about  it.  That'll  all  come  right 
...  bit  by  bit,  bit  by  bit.   ..." 

44  A  lake  full  of  white-faced  mermaids:  that's  rot, 
eh?  .  .  .An  express-train:  was  I  away,  shortly 
before  my  illness?  I  wasn't,  was  I?  .  .  .  The 
body  ...  of  a  girl:  did  I  see  that?  ...  A 
snake-thing,  a  great  wriggling  snake-thing:  yes,  that 
snake-thing  was  there  all  right;  I  fought  the  thing. 
...  I  believe  it  was  all  rot  .  .  .  except  the  great 
snake-thing,  which  licked  me  up  .  .  .  with  its 
tongue.  ..." 

44  You  mustn't  talk  so  much." 

44 .  .  .  Because  I  always  used  to  feel  that  snake- 
thing  inside  me  .    .    .  always.  ..." 

44  Come,  Van  Lowe  .  .  .  keep  very  quiet  now 
..   .   .  and  rest  .   .   .  rest.  ..." 


326    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

The  sick  man  sank  away,  sank  away  in  the  downy 
abyss.  ... 

Gerrit  made  progress  every  day.  He  was  now 
so  much  better  that  he  had  walked  across  the  room, 
on  Constance*  arm,  and  just  seen  his  two  boys,  only 
for  a  moment,  because  he  longed  for  them  so: 

"  The  others  too,"  he  said. 

The  next  day  they  brought  Marietje  and  Gerdy 
and  Constant  to  him;  the  day  after  that,  the  four 
others.  .    .    .  He  had  how  seen  them  all: 

"  But  for  such  a  short  time !  "  he  said. 

He  recovered  slowly.  He  had  seen  Van  der 
Welcke  and  Addie;  and,  one  pale,  wintry,  sunny 
day,  he  had  been  out  for  a  little  while,  but  the 
outside  world  made  him  giddy.  Still  he  couldn't 
deny  it:  he  was  getting  better.  He  saw  his  mother; 
and,  when  she  saw  him,  she  forgot  that  he  had 
been  ill: 

"Where  have  you  been,  Gerrit?  .  r.    ." 

"  Laid  up,  Mamma." 

"Laid  up?  .  .  ."  The  old  woman  nodded 
wisely.     "You  haven't  been  ill,  have  you?" 

"Just  a   little,   Mamma.     It  wasn't  very  bad. 


And  he  got  better,  he  made  progress.    He  went 
out  walking,  with  his  wife,  with  Constance,  with 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    327 

Van  der  Welcke.  He  went  out  with  his  nephew 
Addie;  the  outside  world  no  longer  made  him 
giddy.  On  his  walks,  he  recognized  brother- 
officers;  one  day,  he  met  the  hussars: 

44  Oh,  damn  it  all !  "  he  swore,  without  knowing 
why. 

It  was  as  though  he  suddenly  saw  that  he  would 
never  again  ride,  straight-backed,  clear-eyed,  at  the 
head  of  his  squadron.  But  it  was  all  rot,  seeing 
that.    .    .    . 

Still  he  was  unable  to  resume  his  service.  He 
lazed  and  loafed,  as  he  said.  In  the  evenings,  al- 
ways very  early,  he  sank  away  into  a  downy  abyss, 
dropped  asleep,  heavily.  .    .    . 

And  he  no  longer  remembered  things: 

44  I  say,  Constance." 

"  What  is  it,  Gerrit?" 

"  When  I  saw  that  girl  ...  in  the  ceme- 
tery .  .  .  were  you  there  too  and  did  you  call 
me?   .    .    ." 

"  No,  Gerrit.     You've  been  dreaming." 

"Oh,  did  I  dream  that?" 

44  Yes." 

44  No,  no." 

44  Yes,  Gerrit,  you  dreamt  it." 

Another  time,  he  said  to  Van  der  Welcke: 

44 1  say,  Van  der  Welcke." 

44  What  is  it,  Gerrit?" 

44  You  don't  know  .    .    .   but  I  was  carrying  on 


328    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

with  a  girl  .    .   .  one  I  knew  in  the  old  days.  .   .   . 
Find  out  what's  become  of  her,  will  you?  " 

"  What's  her  name  and  where  does  she  hang 
out?" 

He  reflected: 

11  Her  name  .    .    .  her  name's  Pauline." 

"And  where  does  she  live?" 

"  In  .    .    .in  the  Frederikstraat." 

Van  der  Welcke  made  enquiries,  but  said  nothing, 
next  time  he  came.  The  sick  man  remembered, 
however :  ' 

"  I  say,  Van  der  Welcke." 

"Yes,  Gerrit?" 

"  Did  you  ask  about  that  for  me?" 

"Yes,"  Van  der  Welcke  answered,  hesitatingly. 

"Well?" 

"  The  girl's  dead,  old  chap." 

"Did  she  drown  herself?" 

"  Yes." 

"They  took  the  body  to  the  cemetery?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  then  I  wasn't  dreaming!  You  see  for  your- 
self. .  .  .  And  your  wife  came  and  fetched  me 
there.  ..." 

"  No,  no." 

"  Yes,  she  did." 

"  No,  no,  old  chap." 

The  sick  man  reflected : 

"  I  no  longer  know,"  he  said,  "  what  I've  lived 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    329 

and  what  I've  dreamed.  The  confounded  snake- 
thing:  that  .  .  .  that  was  real.  It  had  been  eating 
me  up  .  .  .  eating  me  up  since  I  was  a  boy.  .  .  ." 
He  grew  very  gloomy  and  sat  for  hours  and 
hours,  silently,  in  his  chair  .  .  .  until  he  sank  into 
the  downy  abyss. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

It  was  time  that  he  became  the  old  Gerrit  again, 
bit  by  bit,  you  know,  bit  by  bit.  The  weeks  dragged 
past  and  the  weeks  became  months  and  it  was  time 
that  he  became  the  old  Gerrit  again,  bit  by  bit,  you 
know,  bit  by  bit.  His  doctor  wouldn't  hear  yet  of 
his  resuming  his  service;  but  he  saw  his  pals  daily: 
the  officers  looked  him  up,  fetched  him  for  a  walk ; 
and  in  their  company  he  tried  to  go  back  to  his 
breezy,  jovial  tone,  his  rather  broad  jokes,  all  the 
noisy  geniality  which  had  characterized  the  great, 
yellow-haired  giant  that  he  had  been.  And  it  was 
all  no  use.  He  had  grown  thin,  his  cheeks  were 
hollow,  his  flesh  hung  loosely  on  his  bones  and  he 
was  soon  tired  and,  above  all,  soon  giddy.  .  .  . 
But  the  rottenest  part  of  it  was  that  he  didn't  re- 
member things.  No  doubt  he  felt  that,  by  degrees, 
with  the  diet  prescribed  for  him,  which  Adeline 
observed  so  conscientiously,  he  would  be  able  to 
strengthen  his  carcase  a  bit;  he  even  took  up  his 
dumb-bells  once,  in  his  grief  at  the  disappearance 
of  those  grand  muscles  of  his;  but  he  very  soon 
put  the  heavy  weights  down  again.  Then  he 
smacked  his  emaciated  thighs  and,  despite  his  inner 
conviction,  yielded  to  a  feeling  of  optimism : 

330 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     331 

"Oh,  well!"  he  thought.  "That'll  get  right 
again  in  time!  " 

But  the  rottenest  part  of  it  was  that  he  no  longer 
remembered  things — he  was  ashamed  of  that  above 
all,  he  did  not  want  it  noticed — and  that  everybody 
noticed  it.  Then  he  would  sit  in  a  chair  by  the  fire — 
it  was  a  raw,  damp  January,  cold  without  frost — and 
his  thoughts  stared  out  idly  before  him,  with  a 
thousand  roaming  eyes,  his  idle  thoughts.  They 
hung  heavily  in  his  brain,  filling  it,  like  clouds  in  a 

sky He  would  sit  like  that  for  hours,  with 

a  newspaper  or  an  illustrated  weekly:  French  comic 
picture-papers,  which  Van  der  Welcke  brought  him 
to  amuse  him.  He  hardly  laughed  at  the  jokes,  only 
half  understood  them,  sat  reading  them  stupidly. 
And,  in  his  turgid  brain  full  of  clouds,  full  of  those 
idle  thoughts,  an  immense,  world-wide  melancholy 
descended,  a  leaden  twilight.  The  twilight  de- 
scended from  the  sky  outside  and  it  descended  from 
his  own  brain.  .  .  .  Then  everything  became  chilly 
around  him  and  within  him;  and,  above  all,  memory 
was  lost.  Since  the  beast  no  longer  held  him  in  its 
clutching  dragon's  claws,  since  the  thousand-legged 
crawling  thing  had  devoured  all  his  marrow  with 
voluptuous  licks,  since  it  had  perhaps  sucked  up  his 
very  blood :  since  then  it  had  left  him  like  an  empty 
house,  with  soft  muscles  and  flabby  flesh;  and  he 
almost  longed  to  have  the  beastly  thing  back,  because 
the  beast  had  given  him  the  energy  to  fight  against 


332     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

the  beast:  for  himself,  in  order  to  conquer;  for 
others,  in  order  to  hide  himself.  The  beast  had 
conquered,  the  beast  had  eaten  him  up.  It  wanted 
no  more  of  him;  the  great  dragon-worm  had  dis- 
appeared. It  no  longer  wound  through  the  skies; 
and  nothing  more  hung  in  the  skies  but  twilight- 
distilling  clouds.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  creepy,  chilly  twi- 
light !  Oh,  the  all-pervading  mist,  dank  and  clammy 
all  round  him!  He  shivered;  and  the  fire  no  longer 
warmed  him.  He  crept  up  to  it,  he  could  have  crept 
into  it;  and  the  glowing,  open  fire  no  longer  warmed 
him. 

"  Line,  ring  for  some  wood:  I  want  to  see  flames; 
this  coke's  no  use  to  me." 

Then  he  heaped  up  the  logs  until  Adeline  feared 
that  he  would  set  the  chimney  on  fire. 

Or   else    Constance   would   come   to   fetch   him, 
wanted  him  to  go  for  a  walk. 

"  No,  dear,  it's  too  chilly  for  me  outside." 
He  remained  sitting  in  what  to  the  others  was  the 
unendurable  heat  of  the  blazing  fire.     He  shivered. 
He  shivered  to  such  an  extent  that  he  asked : 
"  Line,  send  in  the  children." 
"  But,  Gerrit,  they'll  only  tire  you." 
11  No,  no  .    .    .  I'm  longing  to  see  them." 
They  would  come  in;  and,  when  the  others  came 
home  from  school,  he  would  gather  them  round  him 
and  try  to  play  with  them,  teasing  and  tickling  them 
now  and  again.     It  tired  him,  but  they  were  some- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     333 

thing  warm  around  him:  more  warmth  radiated 
from  a  single  one  of  them  than  from  his  glowing 
log-fire. 

"How  many  have  I?"  he  reflected,  groping  in 
his  memory,  which  fled  in  front  of  him  with  winged 
irony. 

And  he  counted  on  his  fingers.  He  was  not  quite 
certain.  Until  he  saw  them  all  gathered  round  him 
and  had  counted  them  on  his  fingers,  silently — 
Marie,  Adeletje,  Alex,  Guy — he  did  not  always  re- 
member that  he  had  nine.  The  children  were  very 
sweet:  Marie  saw  to  his  oatmeal,  which  he  had  to 
take  at  five  in  the  afternoon;  the  cheeky  boys  were 
very  attractive.  But  he  suffered  because  little 
Gerdy,  the  child  with  such  a  passion  for  caresses, 
had  become  afraid  of  him.  She  shrank  back  timidly 
from  him,  thinking  him  strange,  that  thin,  emaciated 
father  whom  she  used  to  embrace  in  her  little 
childish  arms  as  a  strong  father,  a  great,  big  father 
who  tossed  her  up  in  the  air  and  caught  her  again 
and  romped  with  her  and  kissed  her.  She  had 
become  frightened  of  his  long,  lean  fingers  and 
looked  in  dismay  at  the  hands  that  gripped  her  with 
the  fingers  of  a  skeleton.  He  noticed  it  and  no 
longer  asked  her  to  come  to  his  room,  now  that  he 
saw  that  she  shuddered  when  she  sat  on  his  thin 
legs  and  that  she  disliked  the  big  fire,  which  made 
her  frown  angrily  and  draw  in  her  little  lips.  But 
it  hurt  him,  though  he  said  nothing. 


334    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

But  what  hurt  him  most  was  .  .  .  that  he  did 
not  remember  things.  It  was  as  though  daily  the 
twilight  deepened  around  him,  around  his  soul, 
which  shuddered  in  his  chilly,  shuddering  body. 
One  day,  Constance  said: 

"We  have  good  news  from  Nunspeet.  ..." 

But  Gerrit  remembered  nothing  about  Nunspeet; 
still  he  did  not  wish  to  show  it : 

"Really?"  he  said. 

Nevertheless  she  saw  it  in  his  blank  look. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  Ernst  is  a  great  deal 
better.     I  shall  go  and  see  him  again  to-morrow." 

He  now  remembered  all  about  Ernst  and  Nuns- 
peet, but  yet  he  was  ashamed  of  his  recent  lack  of 
memory  and  his  hollow  cheeks  almost  flushed.  .   .   . 

A  week  later,  Ernst  came  to  see  him,  with  Con- 
stance. He  was  so  much  improved  that  the  doctor 
himself  had  advised  him  to  go  to  the  Hague  for 
a  few  days;  he  was  staying  with  the  Van  der 
Welckes.  His  hallucinations  had  almost  vanished; 
and,  when  Gerrit  saw  him,  it  struck  Gerrit  that  Ernst 
was  looking  better,  his  complexion  healthier,  pro- 
bably through  the  outdoor  life,  his  hair  and  beard 
trimmed;  and  his  eyes  were  not  so  restless,  while 
he  himself  was  neatly  dressed,  under  his  sister's 
care. 

"  Well,  old  chap,"  said  Gerrit,  "  so  you've  come 
to  look  me  up  ?  .  .  .  That's  nice  of  you.  .  .  .  I'm 
a  bit  off  colour.     And  you  .    .    .  ?  " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     335 

"  I'm  much  better,  Gerrit." 

11  I'm  glad  of  that.  And  those  queer  notions  of 
yours:  what  about  them?  " 

Ernst  gave  an  embarrassed  laugh  : 

"  Yes,"  he  confessed,  shyly.  "  I  did  have  queer 
notions  sometimes.  I  don't  think  I  have  any  now. 
But  I  am  staying  on  at  the  doctor's.  I've  only  come 
up  for  a  day  or  two.  .  .  .  I've  seen  my  rooms 
again." 

"You  have,  have  you?  .    .    .  And  your  vases?" 

"  Yes,  my  vases,"  said  Ernst,  greatly  embar- 
rassed. 

11  And  all  the  voices  that  you  used  to  hear,  Ernst 
...  all  the  souls  that  used  to  throng  round  you, 
old  chap:  you  don't  feel  them  thronging  now,  you 
don't  hear  them  any  longer?  " 

Gerrit  tried  to  put  on  his  genial  bellow  and  to 
poke  fun  at  Ernst  about  the  vases  and  the  souls,  as 
he  used  to ;  but  it  was  no  good.  He  lay  back  in  his 
chair,  by  the  big  fire;  and  his  idle  thoughts  stared 
before  him. 

No,"  Ernst  answered,  quietly.  "  I  only  hear 
the  voices  now  and  again;  and  I  no  longer 
feel  them  thronging  so  much,  Gerrit.  .  .  .  And 
you've  been  very  ill,  haven't  you?"  he  added, 
quietly. 

"  Yes,  old  chap." 

u  You're  getting  better,  eh?" 

11  Yes,  I'm  getting  better  now.     My  carcase  can 


336    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

stand  some  knocking  about.  I'm  glad  you're  better 
too. 

Constance  made  a  sign  to  Ernst :  he  got  up,  good 
and  obedient  as  a  child.  And  they  left  Gerrit 
alone. 

Adeline  was  sitting  in  the  other  room,  with  both 
doors  open,  because  Gerrit's  big  fire  was  too  much 
for  her  and  also  because  she  didn't  want  the  children 
to  be  running  in  and  worrying  him. 

"  Ernst  is  looking  well,"  she  said,  glancing  up  at 
him. 

Then  her  hands  felt  for  Constance'  hands  and  she 
began  to  cry,  sobbing  very  quietly  lest  Gerrit  should 
hear. 

"Hush,  Adeline,  hush!" 

"  He  won't  get  better !  " 

"  Yes,  he  will,  he'll  get  quite  well.  Ernst  is 
better  too." 

"  But  he  .  .  .  he's  lost  all  his  strength  .  .  .  he's 
so  weak!  ..." 

"  He'll  get  well  and  strong  again.  ..." 

"What  day  of  the  week  is  it,  Constance?  ..." 

M  It's  Sunday,  Adeline.  .  .  .  I'm  going  with 
Ernst  to  Mamma's  for  a  minute  or  two.  How  glad 
Mamma  will  be  to  see  him!  .  .  .  Are  you  coming 
to  Mamma's  this  evening,  Sissy?" 

Adeline  shook  her  head: 

M  No,"  she  said,  "  I  can't.  I  daren't  leave  Gerrit 
alone  yet.   .  ,.    ." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Oh,  how  the  twilight  was  gathering,  oh,  how  it  was 
gathering  around  him!  It  was  dark  now,  quite 
dark;  and  the  fire  on  the  hearth  was  dying  out  in 
the  dark,  shadowy  room.  But  what  was  the  use  of 
making  it  blaze  up :  did  the  room  not  always  remain 
shiveringly  cold,  however  much  the  fire  might  glow? 
What  was  the  use  of  lighting  lamps:  was  the  twi- 
light not  deeper  and  gloomier  day  by  day,  whether 
it  were  morning  or  evening?  Did  not  the  pale  gold 
of  the  dawn  shimmer  more  and  more  vaguely 
through  the  dense  mist  of  twilight?  ...  A  dull, 
apathetic,  feeble  man.  .  .  .  Had  he  kept  his  secret 
all  his  life,  concealed  the  real  condition  of  his  body 
and  his  soul,  to  become  like  that?  And  yet  was  he 
not  Ernst's  brother?  Had  he  not  always  been 
Ernst's  brother  .  .  .  though  it  had  always  seemed 
otherwise?  Were  they  not  of  the  same  blood  and 
had  not  they,  the  brothers,  the  same  soul,  the  same 
darkened  soul?  Was  the  darkness  not  gathering 
around  all  of  them  now,  the  sombre  twilight  of 
their  small  lives?  .  .  .  Would  the  darkness  one 
day  close  in  upon  his  own  pale-golden  dawn:  his 
children,  who  also  shared  the  same  soul?  ...  It 
might  be  the  darkness  of  old  age  as  it  closed  in 

337 


338    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

upon  Mamma — he  could  see  her  as  she  sat — or  it 
might  be  the  darkness  of  sorrow  and  weariness  and 
loneliness,  as  yonder,  round  Bertha.  Were  the 
shadows  not  deepening  round  Paul  and  Dorine,  for 
all  their  youth?  .  .  .  Had  it  not  been  as  a  night 
round  Ernst,  even  though  he  was  now  stepping  out 
of  the  dark  .  .  .  back  into  the  twilight  that  sur- 
rounded them  all?  .  .  .  Was  it  their  fault  or  the 
fault  of  their  life:  the  small  life  of  small  souls? 
.  .  .  Did  the  twilight  come  from  their  blood,  which 
grew  poorer,  or  from  their  life,  which  grew  smaller? 
.  .  .  Would  they  never  behold  through  the  twi- 
light the  vistas,  far-reaching  as  the  dawn,  where 
life,  when  all  was  said,  must  be  spacious  .  .  .  and 
would  they  never  strive  for  that  ?  Would  his  child- 
ren never  strive  for  that?  Would  they  never  send 
forth  the  rays  of  their  golden  sunlight  towards  the 
greater  life  and  would  they  not  grow  into  great 
souls?  .  .  .  Would  the  twilight,  afterwards,  deepen 
.  .  .  and  deepen  .  .  .  and  deepen  .  .  .  around 
them  too  .  .  .  until  perhaps  the  very  great  things 
of  life  came  thundering  and  lightening  unexpectedly 
before  them,  crushing  them  and  blinding  them  .  .  ,., 
because  they  had  not  learnt  to  see  the  light?  .   .   . 

He  tried  to  remember  thoughts  of  former  days 
.  .  .  but  they  shot  ahead,  like  winged  ironies.  He 
knew  only  that  night  was  falling,  one  vast  night 
around  all  the  family,  under  the  grey  skies  of  their 
winter.    He  knew  only  that  the  light  was  growing 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     339 

dimmer  and  dimmer  around  them,  until  it  became 
unillumined  dusk:  the  dusk  of  age;  the  dusk  of 
sorrow;  the  dusk  of  cynical  selfishness;  the  dusk  of 
life  without  living;  all  the  heavy,  sombre  twilight 
that  gathered  around  small  souls  .  .  .  until  with 
Ernst  the  dusk  had  grown  into  night  and  the  dark 
dream  from  which  he  was  now  emerging.  .  .  . 
They  called  that  recovering.  .  .  .  They  thought 
that  he  would  recover.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  dark  and 
gloomy  were  the  shadows  of  the  twilight  and  how 
heavy  was  the  fate  that  hung  over  their  small  souls, 
hung  over  them  like  a  leaden  sky,  an  immensity  of 
leaden  skies !  .   .   . 

He,  yes,  he  would  get  better.  It  might  take 
months  yet;  and  then  he  would  resume  his  service 
as  a  dull,  decrepit  old  man,  diseased  through  and 
through,  from  his  childhood,  under  the  semblance 
of  muscular  strength,  until  one  serious  illness  was 
enough  to  break  him  and  make  him  dull  and  old 
for  all  the  rest  of  his  life.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  would 
get  better.  But  it  would  no  longer  be  necessary  to 
raise  his  voice  to  a  roar,  to  make  his  movements 
rough  and  blunt,  to  make  a  show  of  strength  and 
force  and  roughness;  for  they  would  now  all  see 
through  the  sad  pretence.  He  would  jog  along 
through  his  small,  shadowed  life,  until  the  shadows 
gathered  around  him  ...  as  they  were  now 
gathering  around  his  mother;  and  .  .  ,.  and  .  .  ., 
and  his  children  would  never  again  recognize  in 


340    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

him  their  father  of  the  old  days,  who  used  to  romp 
with  them  and  fill  the  whole  house  with  all  the  rush 
of  his  healthy  vitality.  ...  It  was  over,  over  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.   .    .    . 

It  was  over.  In  the  room  which  had  grown  chill 
and  dark,  the  black  thought  haunted  him,  that  it 
was  over.  It  almost  made  him  calm,  to  know  that 
it  was  over,  that  for  his  children,  his  nine — did  he 
not  remember  their  golden  number  correctly? — he 
could  never  be  other  than  the  shadow  of  their  father 
of  the  old  days.  .  .  .  Oh,  would  he  never  again 
be  able  to  love  them,  to  be  a  father  to  them?  Could 
he  never  do  that  again?  Must  he,  when  cured, 
remain  for  all  the  rest  of  his  life  the  man  conquered 
by  the  beast,  the  man  eaten  up  by  the  beast,  the 
man  broken  in  the  contest  with  the  dragon-beast? 
Was  it  so?    Was  it  so?   .    .    . 

Why  did  they  leave  him  in  the  cold  and  the 
dark?  Shivers  ran  down  his  back — his  marrowless 
back,  his  bloodless  body — like  a  stream  of  ice-cold 
water?  Why  didn't  they  make  up  his  fire  and  why 
didn't  they  light  his  lamp?  .  .  .  Did  they  know 
that  nothing  could  give  him  warmth  and  light  ? 

"  Adeline  I  " 

His  voice  sounded  faint  and  weak.  In  the  next 
room,  which  was  now  dark,  nothing  stirred.  He 
rose  out  of  his  deep  chair  with  difficulty,  like  an 
old  man.  He  groped  round  for  the  door  of  the 
other  room.    A  feeble  light  still  entered  from  out- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     341 

side.  .  .  .  There  she  sat,  there  she  lay,  his  wife: 
she  had  fallen  asleep  with  weariness  and  anxiety 
for  him,  her  arms  on  the  table,  her  face  on  her 
arms.  .  .  .  Was  it  his  imagination,  or  had  she 
really  changed?  He  had  not  noticed  her  for  weeks, 
since  his  illness,  had  not  looked  at  her,  though  she 
had  nursed  him  all  the  time.  .  .  .  Certainly  he  was 
very  fond  of  her;  but  she  was  doing  her  duty  as  his 
wife.  She  had  borne  him  his  children  and  she  was 
nursing  him  now  that  he  was  ill.  Had  he  been 
wrong  in  thinking  like  that?  Yes,  perhaps  it  had 
not  been  right  of  him.  .  .  .  Gad,  how  she  had 
changed!  How  different  from  the  young,  fresh 
face  that  she  used  to  have,  the  little  mother-girl, 
the  little  child-mother!  Was  it  the  ghostly  effect  of 
the  faint  light  or  was  it  so?  Was  she  so  pale  and 
thin  and  tired  .  .  .  with  anxiety  about  him,  with 
nursing  and  looking  after  him?  .  .  .  He  felt  his 
heart  swelling.  He  had  never  loved  her  as  he  did 
now!  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  .  .  .  with  a 
fonder  kiss  than  he  had  ever  given  her.  She  just 
quivered  in  her  sleep:  she  was  sound  asleep.  .  .  . 
Lord,  how  tired  she  was!  How  pale  she  was,  how 
thin!  She  lay  broken  with  worry  and  weariness, 
her  head  in  her  arms.   .    .    . 

"Adeline.   ..." 

She  did  not  answer,  she  slept.  .  .  .  He  would 
not  wake  her;  he  would  ring  for  the  fire  and  the 
lamp    himself.  ..,  A  ,..  But    what    was    the    good? 


342     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

Lamp  and  lire  would  make  things  no  brighter 
around  him,  now  that  the  great  twilight  was  de- 
scending. .  .  .  Oh,  the  great  inexorable,  pitiless 
twilight !  Would  it  fall  around  him  as  it  had  fallen 
around  Ernst  .  ,.  .  around  whom  it  was  now  slowly 
clearing?  Did  the  twilight  clear  again?  Or 
would  the  shadows  around  him  gradually  deepen 
into  darkness,  the  darkness  that  was  now  gathering 
around  his  mother?  Or  would  it  just  remain  dim 
around  him,  with  the  same  wan  light  that  glim- 
mered around  Paul  and  Dorine?  What,  what 
would  their  twilight  be?  .    .    . 

The  house  was  very  cold  and  he  felt  chilly.  Was 
there  no  fire  anywhere?  Where  were  the  children? 
Were  Marietje  and  Adeletje  and  the  two  boys  not 
back  from  school  yet?  .  .  .  He  now  heard  Gerdy 
and  Constant  playing  in  the  room  downstairs — the 
nursery  and  dining-room — heard  them  talking  to- 
gether with  their  dear  little  voices.  .  .  .  Oh,  his 
two  sunny-haired  darlings!  .  .  .  But  Gerdy  was 
afraid  of  him.  .  .  .  He  was  becoming  afraid  of 
himself.  .  .  .  He  was  no  longer  the  man  he  used 
to  be.  .  .  .  People  now  saw  him  as  he  was.  . 
He  could  no  longer  put  on  that  air  of  brute  strength. 
.   .    .  His  voice  had  lost  its  blustering  force.  .   .    . 

He  did  not  know  why,  but  he  roamed  through 
the  house.  ...  It  struck  him  as  lonely,  dreary  and 
quiet,  though  the  children  were  playing  below.  .  .  . 
He  stood  on  the  stairs  and  listened.     What  was 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    343 

that  rushing  noise  in  the  distance?  No,  there  was 
no  rushing  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was:  something  came 
rushing,  from  outside,  to  where  he  stood;  some- 
thing came  rushing:  a  melancholy  wind,  like  a  wind 
out  of  eternity.  ...  An  immense  eternity;  and 
immense  the  wind  that  rushed  out  of  it;  and  chilly 
and  small  and  dreary  the  house;  everything  so 
small;  he  himself  so  small!  .  .  .  He  did  not  know 
what  was  coming  over  him,  but  he  felt  frightened 
.  .  .  frightened,  as  he  had  sometimes  felt  when  a 
child.  .  .  .  He  was  so  afraid  of  that  rushing  sound 
that  he  called  out: 

"Adeline!  .    .    .  Line!  ..." 

He  waited  for  her  to  hear  and  answer.  But  she 
did  not  hear,  she  slept.  .  .  .  Then  he  roamed  on, 
shuddering  .  .  .  upstairs  ...  to  his  own  little 
room.  .  .  .  And  it  was  all  so  dreary  and  chill  and 
lonely  and  the  sound  of  rushing  from  the  immense 
eternity  outside  the  house  was  so  melancholy  that 
he  sank  helplessly  into  a  chair  and  began  to  sob. 
.  .  .  He  was  done  for  now.  .  .  .  He  sobbed.  .  .  . 
His  great,  emaciated  body  jolted  up  and  down  with 
his  sobs;  his  lungs  panted  with  his  sobs;  and,  in  his 
great,  lean  hands,  his  head  sobbed,  in  despair.  .    .    . 

He  was  done  for  now.  .  .  .  He  knew  now  that 
he  would  not  get  well.  ...  He  knew  now  that  he 
ought  really  to  have  died  .  .  .  and  that  he  had 
gone  on  living  only  because  his  life  had  gone  on 
hanging  to  a  thread  that  had  not  broken.     Would 


344    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

that  last  thread  soon  break?  Or  would  his  darkened 
life  go  on  for  a  long  time — he  always  ill — hanging 
to  that  last  thread?  Would  he  yet  be  able  to  be  a 
father  to  his  children  ...  or  would  he  ...  on 
the  contrary  .  .  .  become  ...  a  burden  to  his 
dear  ones?  Was  it  growing  dark,  was  it  growing 
dark?    Was  not  that  eternity  rushing  along?  .    .    . 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  amid  his  sobs.  His  eyes 
sought  along  the  wall,  where  a  rack  of  swords  and 
Malay  krises  hung  between  prints  of  race-horses 
and  pretty  women.  He  had  a  whole  collection  of 
those  weapons.  Some  of  them  had  belonged  to  his 
father.  At  Papa's  death  they  had  been  divided 
between  him  and  Ernst.  .  .  .  Among  the  krises 
and  swords  were  two  revolvers.  .    .    . 

He  stared  past  the  swords  and  krises  .  .  .  and 
his  eyes  fastened  on  the  revolvers.  ...  In  among 
the  swords  and  krises,  in  among  the  race-horses  and 
the  pretty  women  whirled  all  the  heads  of  his 
children — he  did  not  know  if  they  were  portraits 
or  spectres — as  they  had  been,  children's  heads  of 
six  months,  one  year  old,  two  years  old:  growing 
older  and  bigger,  radiating  more  and  more  sun- 
light, his  golden  dawn  of  nine  bright-haired  child- 
ren? .  .  .  Would  he  be  able  to  be  a  father  to 
them,  or  would  he  on  the  contrary  become  a  bur- 
den? .    .    . 

It  was  as  if  his  imagination  were  digging  in  a 
deep  pit.    In  a  deep  pit  his  imagination,  with  hurry- 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     345 

ing  hands,  dug  up  sand.  What  was  it  seeking,  his 
rooting  imagination?  What  was  it  seeking  in  the 
deep  pit,  why  was  it  flinging  the  sand  around  him 
.  .  .  just  as  Addie  once  told  him  that  Ernst  had 
dug  and  flung  up  sand  ...  in  the  dunes  ...  in 
the  dunes  at  Nunspeet?  .  .  .  What!  .  .  .  What! 
.  .  .  Was  he  going  mad  too !  .  .  .  Was  he  going 
mad  .  .  .  like  Ernst?  Was  he  going  mad  .  .  . 
like  Ernst?  ...  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  his 
chilly,  shivering  body.     Was  he  going  mad?  .    .    . 

"Gerrit!  .    .    .  Gerrit!" 

A  voice  sounded  very  far  away  through  the  house, 
which  had  suddenly  become  very  deep,  very  wide, 
very  big. 

"  Gerrit!  .    .    .  Gerrit!" 

He  could  hear  the  hurrying  footsteps  on  the 
creaking  stairs,  but  he  was  powerless  to  answer. 

"Gerrit!  .    .    .  Gerrit!  .    .    .  Where  are  you?" 

The  door  opened.  It  was  Adeline,  looking  for 
him  ...  in  the  dark: 

"  Gerrit!  .   .   .  Are  you  here?  .    .    . 

Even  yet  he  did  not  answer. 

44  Where  are  you,  Gerrit?  " 

"  Here." 

44  Are  you  here?" 

44  Yes." 

14  Why  are  you  sitting  in  the  dark  ...  in  the 
cold?  .   .   .  What  are  you  doing  here,  Gerrit?  .   .   ." 

"  I  .    .    .1  was  looking  for  something." 


t*  11. 

u 


346    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  For  what?  .  „.u» 
I've  forgotten.,, 
Why  didn't  you  ask  me  ?  " 

She  had  lit  the  gas. 

"  You  were  asleep." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Gerrit.     I  was  tired." 

11  I'm  not  angry,  dear.  I  didn't  like  to  disturb 
you." 

u  Why  didn't  you  wake  me?  " 

"  You  were  asleep." 

"  You  ought  to  have  waked  me." 

He  put  out  his  arms  to  her : 

"  Come  here,  dear." 

She  came;  he  drew  her  to  his  knees. 

"What  is  it,  Gerrit?" 

"  Darling  .  .  .  Line  ...  I  believe  I'm  very 
.    .    .   very  ill." 

"  You've  been  ill,  Gerrit.  You're  .  .  ,.  you're 
getting  better  now  . 

"  Do  you  think  so?  .    . 

"Oh  yes!" 

"  Line,  I  believe  .  .  .  I'm  very  .  .  .  very  .  .  ., 
ill." 

"Why,  do  you  feel  worse?  .  .  .  It's  so  cold 
in  here.  Come  downstairs.  We'll  make  up  the 
fire." 

"  No,  stay  here.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Line:  if  I  died, 
would  you  ..." 

"  No,  no,  Gerrit,  I  can't  bear  it! " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    347 

14  Hush,  dear:  if  I  died,  would  you  believe  .    .    . 
after  I  am  dead  ..." 
"Oh,  Gerrit,  Gerrit!" 
11  That  I   have   always  been  very  fond  of  you 

"Gerrit,  don't!  " 

11  That  I  have  always  been  kind  to  you  .  .  . 
that  I  have  not  neglected  you?   .    .    ." 

11  Oh,  you're  not  going  to  die,  Gerrit !  .  .  .  You 
will  get  better  .  .  .  and  you  have  always,  always 
been  kind!  .    .    . " 

44  Line  .    .    .  and  all  our  children  .    .    . " 

44  Don't,  Gerrit!" 

44  Won't  they  think  ...  if  I  die  ..  .  that  I 
had  no  business  to  die  .  .  .  because  I  ought  to 
have  lived  and  been  a  father  to  them?  ..." 

44  But,  Gerrit,  you're  not  going  to  die!" 

44 1  should  like  to  go  on  living,  Line  .  .  .  for 
you,  dear,  and  for  the  children.  But  I  fear  I'm 
very  ill.  ..." 

k>  Will  you  see  the  doctor,  Gerrit?  ..." 

44  No,  no.  .  .  .  Stay  like  this,  quietly,  for  a 
minute,  on  your  husband's  knees.  .  .  .  Line,  Gerdy 
has  become  frightened  of  me.  Tell  me,  Line, 
are  you  also  frightened  of  your  skeleton  of  a 
husband?" 

44  Gerrit,  Gerrit,  no !  Gerdy  isn't  frightened 
.    .    .  and  I   .    .    .   I'm  not  frightened.   ..." 

44  Put  your  arms  round  me." 


348     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

She  put  her  arms  right  round  him.  She  hugged 
him,  warmed  him  against  herself,  while  she  sat  upon 
his  knees : 

u  I'm  not  frightened,  Gerrit.  Why  should  I 
be  frightened  of  you?  Because  youVe  been  ill, 
because  you've  grown  thin?  Aren't  you  still  my 
husband,  whom  I  love,  whom  I  have  always  loved? 
Sha'n't  I  nurse  you  till  you  are  yourself  again,  till 
you're  quite  well  .  .  .  and  strong?  .  .  .  Oh, 
Gerrit,  even  if  it  should  take  weeks  .  .  .  months 
...  a  year!  Gerrit,  what  is  a  year?  In  a  year's 
time,  you  will  be  yourself  again  and  well  .  .  .  and 
strong  .  .  .  and  then  we  shall  be  happy  once  more 
.   .   .  and  then  our  children  will  grow  up.  ..." 

44  Yes,  dear  ...  if  only  it  doesn't  get  dark  ..." 

"Gerrit  ..." 

"  If  only  it  doesn't  get  so  dark !  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  that  it  got  very  dark  around  Ernst?  It's 
getting  lighter  around  him  now  .  .  .  but  there's 
some  twilight  around  him  still  .  .  .  even  now.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  that  it  is  getting  dark  around  Mamma 
.  .  .  and  that  it  will  get  darker  and  darker?  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  that  the  twilight  is  closing  around 
Bertha  .  .  .  and  that  there's  twilight  around  the 
others?  .  .  .  Line,  darling,  I'm  frightened.  I'm 
frightened  .  .  .  when  it  gets  dark.  As  a  child,  I 
remember,  I  used  to  be  frightened  .  .  .  when  it 
grew  dark.  .  .  .  YouVe  lit  the  gas  now,  you  see, 
Line.  .    .    .Is  there  only  one  light  burning?    The 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     349 

flame  of  a  gas-jet  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  it's 
getting  dark.  ..." 

44  Gerrit,  my  Gerrit,  is  the  fever  returning? 
Would  you  like  to  go  to  bed?" 

44  Yes,  Line,  I  want  to  go  to  bed.  .  .  .  Put  your 
baby  to  bed,  Line  .  .  .  it's  tired,  it's  not  well. 
Put  it  to  bed,  Line,  and  tuck  the  nice,  warm  clothes 
round  its  cold  back  .  .  .  and  promise  to  stay  and 
sit  with  it  .  .  .  till  it's  asleep  .  .  .  till  it's  asleep. 
.  .  .  Put  it  to  bed,  Line.  .  .  .  And,  Line,  if  your 
baby  ...  if  your  baby  dies  .  .  .  if  it  dies  .  .  . 
will  you  promise  never  ...  to  think  .  .  .  that  it 
did  not  love  you  ...  as  much  as  it  ought  to?  .   .   ." 

She  had  gently  forced  him  to  rise  from  his  chair 
and  she  opened  the  partition-door.  He  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  little  room  while  she  busied  her- 
self in  the  bedroom  and  lit  the  gas  and  then  came 
back  for  him  and  helped  him  undress. 

44  It's  getting  dark  .  .  .  it's  getting  dark,"  he 
muttered,  shivering,  while  his  teeth  chattered  with 
the  cold. 

And  he  felt  that  it  was  not  the  cold  of  fever, 
but  a  cold  in  his  veins  and  his  spine,  because  the 
beast  had  sucked  all  his  blood  and  marrow  with  its 
voluptuous  licks,  had  eaten  him  up  from  the  days 
of  his  childhood,  had  devoured  him  until  now,  in 
the  twilight,  his  soul  shrank  and  withered  in  his 
body,  which  had  no  more  sap  to  feed  it.  .    .    . 

44  It's  getting  dark,"  he  muttered. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

It  was  snowing  heavily.  For  days  the  great  snow- 
flakes  had  been  falling  over  the  small  town  out  of 
an  infinite  sky-land,  out  of  infinite  sky-plains  of 
infinite  snow.  And,  after  all  the  gloom  of  the  dark 
days  that  had  been,  the  days  under  the  grey  skies 
of  storm  and  rain,  it  was  now  snowing  whiter  and 
whiter  out  of  a  denser  greyness  of  sky-plains  and 
sky-land,  flakes  falling  upon  flakes  in  a  soft  white 
shroud  of  oblivion  that  enveloped  houses  and  peo- 
ple. And,  in  that  ever-falling  snow  from  the  great, 
grey  infinity  above  the  small  town  and  the  small 
people,  the  town  seemed  still  smaller,  with  the  out- 
line of  its  houses  now  scarcely  defined  against  the 
all-effacing  oblivion,  which  fell  and  fell  without 
ceasing,  and  the  people  also  seemed  still  smaller, 
as  they  moved  about  the  town  or  looked  through 
the  windows  of  their  small  houses  at  the  white 
flakes  descending  from  the  grey  infinity  overhead. 

For  old  Mrs.  van  Lowe  the  white  days  dragged 
on  monotonously  from  Sunday  to  Sunday:  only  the 
Sunday  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  light;  but  the  other 
days  had  become  so  white  and  blank,  so  white  and 
blank  in  their  twilight  emptiness.  Even  though  the 
children  called  to  see  her  regularly,  she  no  longer 

350 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     351 

knew  that  they  had  been.  It  was  only  on  Sundays 
that  she  missed  them:  when  she  did  not  see  all  of 
those  whom  she  still  carried  in  her  mind  gathered 
in  her  large  rooms,  rooms  which  not  the  largest 
fires  now  seemed  able  to  warm,  a  mournful  reproach 
swelled  up  in  her  heart;  and  her  head  nodded  in 
sad  understanding  and  protest  against  the  sorrows 
of  old  age.   .    .    . 

11  But  here  is  Ernst,  Mamma,  coming  again  as 
he  used  to,"  said  Constance,  leading  Ernst  by  the 
hand  to  her  mother. 

He  now  came  up  once  a  week  from  Nunspeet,  for 
the  day,  in  order  to  reaccustom  himself  to  all  the 
familiar  things  at  the  Hague,  to  the  houses  and 
the  people;  and,  though  still  a  little  shy,  as  usual, 
he  had  lost  all  his  nervous  restlessness  and  become 
quite  calm. 

"  Ernst?"  asked  Mamma. 

11  Yes,  Mamma,  he  is  coming  again  as  he  used 
to." 

11  Has  he  been  long  away?  " 

"  Yes,  Mamma." 

Light  seemed  to  break  upon  the  old  woman 
and  she  smiled,  becoming  younger  in  her  smile, 
now  that  she  remembered.  She  took  her  son's 
hands  and  looked  at  Constance  with  unclouded 
eyes: 

"Is  he  better  now?" 

11  Yes,  Mamma,"  said  Constance. 


352    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

u  Are  you  better  now,  Ernst?  " 

"  Yes,  Mamma,  I  am  much  better." 

She  looked  very  glad,  as  though  a  flood  of  light 
were  shining  around  her: 

u  Don't  you  hear  .  .  .  any  of  those  .  ,.  .of 
those  strange  things?" 

"  No,  Mamma,"  he  answered,  smiling  gently. 

"  And  don't  you  see  .  .  .  don't  you  see  any  .  .  . 
of  those  strange  things?" 

11  No,  Mamma." 

u  That's  good." 

She  said  it  with  grateful,  shining  eyes,  the  flood 
of  light  making  everything  very  clear. 

"  I  have  been  very  strange,  I  believe,"  Ernst 
admitted,  softly  and  shyly. 

"That's  all  cured  now,  Ernst,"  said  Constance. 

"But  Aunt  Lot?"  asked  Mamma.  "What's 
become  of  her  .    .    .  and  the  girls?" 

"  They've  gone  to  Java,  Mamma." 

"To  Java?  .   .   ." 

"  Yes,  don't  you  remember?  They  came  and  said 
good-bye  last  week.  They'll  be  back  in  twelve 
months.  .  .  .  Don't  you  remember  ?  They  thought 
they  could  live  more  cheaply  in  India.  ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  India  ...  I  wish  I  could  go  there  myself.  ..." 

She  felt  as  if  she  must  go  there  to  have  warmth 
in  and  around  her.  And  yet  .  .  .  Ernst  was  back; 
and   at  the   card-tables   were    Karel    and    Cateau; 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     353 

Adolphine  and  her  little  tribe;  Otto  and  Frances 
were  there;  Van  der  Welcke,  Dorine  and  Paul, 
Addie.   ..." 

44  There  are  a  good  many,  after  all,"  she  said  to 
Constance.  44  There  are  a  great  many.  .  .  .  But  I 
miss  ...   I  miss  ..." 

44  Whom,  Mamma?" 

44 1  miss  my  big  lad  ...  I  miss  Gerrit.  Where 
is  Gerrit?" 

44  He  hasn't  been  very  well  lately,  Mamma.  I 
don't  think  he'll  come." 

44  He's  ill  again.  ..." 

44  Not  ill,  but  ..." 

44  Yes,  he  is,  he's  ill.  .  .  .  He's  very  seriously 
ill.  .    .    .  Constance  ..." 

4'  What  is  it,  Mamma?" 

44  You're  the  only  one  to  whom  I  dare  say  it.  .  .  . 
Constance,  Gerrit  is  very  .  .  .  very  ill.  .  .  .  Hush 
.    .    .  he's  .    .    .  he's  dead!  .    .    ." 

44  No,  Mamma,  he's  not  dead." 

44  He  is  dead." 

44  No,  Mamma." 

4  Yes,  child.  .  .  .  Look,  don't  you  see,  in  the 
other  room?  ..." 

44  What,  Mamma?" 

44  That  he's  dead." 

44  No." 

14  What  do  you  see  in  the  other  room  then?" 

44  Nothing,  Mamma.     I  see  the  two  card-tables 


354     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

and  Karel  and  Adolphine  and  Adolphine's  two  girls 
playing  cards." 

"  And  that  light  ...    ." 

"What  light?" 

"All  that  light:  don't  you  see  it?" 

"  No,  Mamma." 

"  He's  lying  there  ...  on  the  floor." 

"  No,  no,  Mamma." 

"  Be  quiet,  child  ...  I  can  see  it  plainly!  .  .  ., 
There,  now  it's  gone!  .    .    ." 

"  Mamma  darling!  " 

"  Constance  ..." 

"Yes,  Mamma?  ..." 

"Go  .   .   .  go  to  Gerrit's  house.  ..." 

11  Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  him?  " 

"  No,  no,  stay  here.  .   .    .  Constance  ..." 

"Yes,  Mamma?  ..." 

"  Send  your  husband  ...  or  your  son." 

"  Are  you  feeling  anxious?  " 

"  Anxious  ?  .  .  .  No.  But  send  your  husband. 
...  or  your  son.  .  .  .  Send  Addie.  ...  If  you 
send  Addie  .   .   .  that'll  be  best." 

"  Would  you  like  him  just  to  go  .  .  .  and  find 
out  for  you  how  Gerrit  is?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Mamma?"  asked  Van 
der  Welcke. 

"Isn't  Mamma  well?"  asked  Adolphine,  at  the 
card-table. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     355 

11  Mamma  is  very  restless  and  excited,"  said  Van 
Saetzema.  "  Hadn't  we  better  send  for  the  doc- 
tor? ..." 

"The  doctor?"  they  repeated,  irresolutely. 

"  Addie,"  asked  Dorine,  "  are  you  going  to  the 
doctor's?" 

"  No,  I'm  going  to  Uncle  Gerrit's.  Granny  is 
uneasy.     She  wants  to  know  how  he  is." 

11  Constance,"  whispered  the  old  woman,  with 
strangely  luminous  eyes,  "  it's  better  that  you  should 
go  too." 

11  Addie's  gone  now,  Mamma." 

11  You  go  too  .  .  .  with  your  husband.  You  and 
your  husband  go  too.  .  .  .  Tell  the  others  that  I 
am  tired.  Let  them  go  away  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  soon. 
Tell  the  others  that  I  am  tired,  dear.  And  tell 
them  .    .    .  tell  them  ..." 

"  Tell  them  what,  Mamma?  " 

"  That  I  am  too  tired  to  .    .    . " 

"Yes?" 

"On  Sundays  ..." 

"To  have  us  here  on  Sundays,  Mamma?" 

"  No,  dear,  no,  don't  say  it.  .  .  .  Don't  say 
that!   ...   But  tell  them  that  this  evening  .    .    ." 

"  This  evening?  " 

"  Is  the  last  time  ..." 

"The  last  evening?" 

"  No,  dear,  no,  not  the  last.  .  .  .  Just  tell  them 
to  go  away,  dear  .    .    .  and  you  go  with  your  hus- 


356    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

band.  .  .  .  Has  Addie  gone?  But  you  go  now 
.  .  .  you  go  also  ...  to  Gen-it' s  house.  .  .  .  And 
then  come  back  here  again.  ...  I  want  to  see  you 
...  all  three  of  you  .  .  .  here  again.  .  .  . 
Do  you  understand?  .  .  .  All  three  of  you  .  .  . 
do  you  understand?  " 

44  Yes,  Mamma." 

44  Go  now  .   .    .  go.  ..." 

They  went;  and  the  children  took  their  leave. 

Outside,  it  was  snowing  great  flakes.  The  snow- 
flakes  had  been  falling  all  through  the  night  over 
the  small  town  out  of  an  infinite  land  of  death,  out 
of  infinite  sky-plains  of  infinite  death.  And,  after 
all  the  gloom  of  the  dark  nights  that  had  been,  the 
nights  under  the  grey  skies  of  storm  and  rain,  it 
had  snowed  whiter  and  whiter  out  of  the  dense 
greyness  of  sky-plains  and  skyland,  flakes  falling 
upon  flakes  in  a  soft  white  shroud  of  oblivion  that 
enveloped  houses  and  people.  .    .   . 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Outside,  the  snow  was  falling  in  great  flakes.    The 
parlour-maid  had  opened  the  door: 

u  But  your  cab  isn't  here  yet,  ma'am.  .   .   ." 

44  It  doesn't  matter.    We'll  walk." 

44  I  must  say,  it's  a  little  absurd  of  Mamma,"  said 
Van  der  Welcke,  on  the  doorstep.  44  Must  we  go 
to  Gerrit's  ...  in  this  weather?  And  has  Addie 
gone  too?  .  .  .  Was  Mamma  as  anxious  as  all 
that?  .  .  .  It's  snowing  hard,  Constance:  it's 
enough  to  give  one  one's  death,  to  go  out  in  this 
weather.  ..." 

44  Well,  then  you  stay,  Henri." 

11  Do  you  mean  to  go  in  any  case?  " 

44  Yes,  Mamma  wants  me  to." 

44  But  it's  absurd!" 

44  Perhaps  so  .  .  .  but  she  would  like  it.  .  .  . 
And  we  mayn't  be  able  to  do  things  to  please  her 
much  longer !  " 

4  Then  send  the  cab  on  to  the  Bankastraat,  when 
it  comes.  ..." 

44  Very  well,  sir." 

They  went.   .    .    . 

44  Didn't  Addie  go  just  now?" 

44  Yes,  a  minute  or  two  before  we  did." 

357 


358     THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  I  don't  see  him." 
u  He  walks  very  fast." 


"Was  Mamma  so  uneasy?" 
"  Yes.  .    .    .  She  was  very  restless  and  anxious." 
"Have  the  others  gone  away  as  well?" 
11  Yes,  Mamma  was  tired.   .    .    .   All  the  same, 
she  relies  upon  us  ...  to  come  back  presently  for 


a  moment." 


"  Mamma  is  becoming  a  little  exacting.  ..." 

"  She's  growing  so  old.  .  .  .  We  may  as  well 
give  her  that  pleasure  ...  of  just  going." 

How  much  gentler  her  tone  had  become!  .  .  . 
Once,  ah,  once  she  would  have  flared  out  at  him 
violently  for  less  than  this  little  difference!  .  .  . 
Now,  ah,  now,  how  much  gentler  everything  about 
her  had  become!  .   .   . 

She  stumbled  through  the  snow. 

"  Take  care,  Constance.  .  .  .  The  pavements  are 
slippery.  .   .   .  Take  my  arm." 

"  No,  I  can  manage." 

"  Take  my  arm." 

She  took  his  arm.  She  slipped  again;  he  held  her 
up.    He  felt  that  she  was  trembling. 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"  No." 

"  You've  got  a  thick  cloak  on." 

"  I'm  not  cold." 

"  What  are  you  so  nervous  about?  " 

"I  don't  know.  ..." 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    359 

"  Your  nerves  liave  been  all  wrong  for  some 
time.  .    .    .  You  often  cry  .   .   .  about  nothing." 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  why.  .  .  .  It's  nothing. 
.   .   .  It's  the  weather.  ..." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  our  Dutch  climate.  .  .  .  Now  at  last 
it's  something  like  winter.  It's  freezing  like  any- 
thing.    The  snow  is  crisp  underfoot." 

She  slipped  again.  He  held  her  up  and  they 
walked  close  together,  in  the  driving  snow,  which 
blinded  them.  .    .    . 

"  I  must  say,  it's  absurd  of  Mamma  ...  to 
send  us  out  in  this  weather.  ..." 

She  did  not  answer:  she  understood  that  he 
thought  it  absurd.  The  cold  took  her  breath  away; 
and  it  seemed  to  her,  as  she  kept  on  slipping, 
that  they  would  never  reach  the  Bankastraat.  .  .  . 
At  last  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  Nassauplein. 
And  she  calculated:  not  quite  ten  minutes  more; 
then  a  moment  with  Gerrit  and  Adeline;  the  cab 
would  fetch  them  there;  then  back  to  Mamma's 
with  Addie  ...  to  set  Mamma's  mind  at  ease. 
And,  as  she  reckoned  it  out,  she  grew  calmer  and 
thought,  with  Henri,  that  it  was  certainly  rather 
absurd  of  Mamma.  She  planted  her  feet  more 
firmly;  she  was  now  walking  more  briskly,  still  hold- 
ing her  husband's  arm.  .  .  .  Was  it  the  cold  or 
what,  that  made  her  keep  on  trembling  with  an  icy 
shiver?  .  .  .  Now,  at  last,  they  were  nearing  the 
Bankastraat  and  Gerrit's  house;  and  it  seemed  to 


36o    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

her  as  if  she  had  been  walking  the  whole  evening 
through  the  thick,  crisp  snow.  Suddenly,  she 
stopped : 

44  Henri,"  she  stammered. 

"What?" 

"I  . . .;.  I  daren't  .   .   ." 

"What  daren't  you?" 

"  I  daren't  ring." 

44  Why  not?" 

44 1  daren't  go  in." 

44  But  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

44  Nothing.  ...  I'm  frightened.    I  daren't." 

44  But,  Constance  .   .   ." 

44  Henri,  I'm  trembling  all  over!  ..." 

44 Are  you  feeling  ill?" 

44  No  .    .    .  I'm  frightened.  ..." 

44  Come,  Constance,  what  are  you  frightened  of? 
Now  that  we're  there,  we  may  as  well  ring.  What 
else  would  you  do  ?  .   .   .  Here's  the  house." 

He  rang  the  bell.  .  .  .  They  waited ;  no  one  came 
to  the  door;  and  the  snow  beat  in  their  faces.     * 

44  But  there's  a  light,"  he  said.  44  They  haven't 
gone  to  bed." 

"And  Addie  ..." 

44  Yes,  Addie  must  be  there." 

44  Ring  again,"  she  said. 

He  rang  the  bell.  .  .  .  They  waited.  .  .  .  The 
house  remained  silent  in  the  driving  snow ;  but  there 
was  a  light  in  nearly  every  window. 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS    361 

"Oh!  .    .    .  Henri!" 

He  rang  the  bell. 

uOh!  .  .  .  Henri !"  she  began  to  sob.  "I'm 
frightened!     I'm  frightened!  ..." 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  sinking  into  the  snow,  into 
a  fleecy,  bottomless  abyss.  Her  knees  knocked  to- 
gether and  he  saw  that  she  was  giving  way.  He 
held  her  up  and  she  fell  against  him  almost  swoon- 
ing. .    .    .  He  rang  the  bell.  .    .    . 

The  door  was  opened.  It  was  Addie  who  opened 
the  door.  They  entered;  Constance  staggered  as 
she  went.  And,  in  her  half-swooning  giddiness,  she 
seemed  to  see  the  house  full  of  whirling  snow- 
flakes,  coming  through  the  roof,  filling  the  passage 
and  the  rooms;  and,  amid  this  strange  snow,  her 
son's  face  appeared  to  her  as  the  face  of  a  ghost, 
very  white,  with  the  blue  flame  of  his  big  eyes.  .   .    . 

At  that  moment  there  came  from  upstairs  a 
wailing  cry,  a  long-drawn-out  shriek,  uttered  in  an 
agony  of  despair;  and  that  cry  seemed  to  call  to 
Constance  out  of  Adeline's  body  through  all  that 
night  of  snow  indoors  and  out. 

u  Mamma,  Papa,  hush!  .  .  .  Uncle  Gerrit  .  .  . 
Uncle  Gerrit  is  .  .  .  dead.  .  .  .  Uncle  Gerrit 
has  ..." 

It  was  snowing,  before  Constance'  giddy  eyes,  as 
she  went  up  the  stairs,  with  her  husband  and  her 
son;  it  was  snowing  wildly,  a  whirl  of  all- 
obliterating  white;  it  was  snowing  all  around  her. 


362    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

And  through  it,  for  the  second  time,  Adeline's  long 
wail  of  despair  rang  out  loud  and  shrill.   .    .    . 

The  rooms  upstairs  were  open.  .  .  .  The  maids 
.  .  .  and  Marietje  in  her  little  nightgown  .  .  r 
were  peeping  round  the  doors,  trembling.  .  .  . 
Gerrit's  little  room  was  open  .  .  .  and  on  the  floor 
lay  the  big  body,  looking  bigger  still,  stretched  out 
like  that  .  .  .  and,  beside  it,  beside  the  big  body,  on 
her  knees,  the  wife  .  .  .  the  small,  fair-haired 
wife.  .  .  .  And  her  wail  of  despair  rang  out  for 
the  third  time. 

"  Adeline !" 

She  now  looked  round,  flung  up  her  arms,  felt  her 
sister's  arms,  Constance'  arms,  around  her: 

"He's  dead!    He's  dead!" 

"  No,  Adeline  .    .    .  perhaps  he's  fainted." 

14  He's  dead!  He's  dead!  .  .  .  He's  cold  .  .  . 
wet  .   .   .  blood  .   .   .  feel!  ..." 

She  uttered  a  scream  of  horror,  the  small, 
fair-haired  wife.  And  suddenly,  drawing  herself 
up,  she  looked  at  the  sword-rack.  .  .  .  Yes,  the 
missing  revolver  ...  was  clutched  in  his  stiff 
hand. 

Van  der  Welcke  and  Addie  closed  the  doors. 
The  maids  were  sobbing  outside.  But  the  sound 
of  little  voices  came;  and  small  fists  banged  at  the 
closed  door: 

11  Mamma !  Mamma !  Mamma !  .  .  .  Aunt 
Constance ! " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     363 

Constance  rose,  giddy  arid  fainting,  not  knowing 
whether  to  go  or  stay.  .    .    . 

44  Constance !  Constance !  "  cried  Adeline,  call- 
ing her  back,  holding  her  in  her  arms. 

44  Mamma !  Mamma !  .  .  .  Aunt  Constance  1 
Aunt  Constance !  " 

Constance  rose  to  her  feet,  made  a  vast  effort  to 
overcome  that  dizzy  faintness  .  .  .  and,  now  that 
the  body  of  the  small,  fair-haired  woman  lay  moan- 
ing upon  the  body  of  the  dead  man,  she  opened  the 
door.  .  .  .  Was  every  light  in  the  house  full  on? 
Why  were  the  maids  sobbing  like  that?  Was  it 
real  then,  was  it  real?  .  .  .  Was  this  Marietje, 
clasping  her  so  convulsively,  trembling  in  her  little 
nightgown?  .  .  .  Were  these  Guy  and  Alex,  sleepy 
still  their  gentle  eyes,  cheeky  their  little  mouths? 
.  .  .  Were  these  Gerdy— oh,  so  frightened! — and 
little  Constant?  .    .    . 

44  Aunt  Constance,  Aunt  Constance !  M 

She  overcame  her  dizziness,  she  did  not  faint: 

44  Darlings,  my  darlings,  hush!  .   .   .  Hush!  .   .   ." 

And  she  led  them  back  to  their  bedroom.  .  .  . 
What  could  she  do  but  embrace  them,  but  press  them 
to  her?  .    .    . 

44  Darlings,  my  darlings !   .    .    . " 

The  wail  of  despair  rang  out  once  more.  .  .  . 
Oh,  she  must  go  back  to  that  poor  woman !  Oh,  she 
had  not  arms  enough,  not  lives  enough!  .  .  .  Oh, 
she  must  multiply  her  life  tenfold!  .   .  ,.; 


364    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  Mamma."  It  was  Addie  speaking.  "  The  cab 
is  here.  .  .  .  I'm  going  for  Dr.  Alsma.  One  of 
the  maids  has  gone  to  another  doctor,  close  by." 

"  Yes,  dear;  and  then  .  .  .  and  then  go  to  .  .  . 
oh,  go  to  Grandmamma's!  She's  expecting  us!  I 
know  for  certain  that  she's  expecting  us !  .  .  .  Stay 
in  here,  darlings,  don't  leave  the  room,  promise 
me!  .  .  .  And,  Addie,  don't  tell  her  .  .  .  don't 
tell  her  anything  yet  .  .  .  tell  her  .  .  .  tell  her 
that  ..." 

The  wail  of  despair  rang  out.  And  there  were 
only  two  of  them,  now  that  Addie  was  gone,  there 
were  only  two  of  them,  helpless,  she  and  Henri, 
in  that  night  of  death  and  snow — as  though  death 
were  snowing  outside,  as  though  death  were  snowing 
into  the  brightly-lit  house,  with  its  all-obliterating 
whiteness,  dazzlingly  light,  dazzlingly  white — there 
were  only  two  of  them.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  twilight  had  passed  away  in  the  dazzling  white 
light. 

But  yonder,  in  the  big,  dark,  chilly  house,  the 
old  woman  sat  waiting.  She  had  sent  the  maids  to 
bed  and  told  them  to  put  out  all  the  lights,  but  she 
herself  did  not  go  to  bed;  she  waited.  She  sat  in 
her  big,  dark  room,  with  just  a  candle  flickering  on 
the  table  beside  her. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  waiting  a  long 
time.  She  felt  very  cold,  though  she  had  put  her 
little  black  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  And  she 
peered  into  the  frowning  shadow,  which  quivered 
with  dancing  black  ghosts  and  with  the  flickering 
of  the  candle.  It  was  a  dance  of  ghosts,  hovering 
silently  round  the  room,  and  they  seemed  to  have 
come  from  the  distant  past  to  haunt  her,  to  have 
come  out  of  the  things  of  long  ago,  of  very  long 
ago:  far-off,  forgotten  years  of  childhood  and  girl- 
hood; the  young  man  whom  she  had  married;  their 
long  life  together;  their  children,  young  around 
them.  .  .  .  Then  the  rise  of  their  greatness;  the 
rise  of  the  white  palaces  in  tropical  climes;  the 
glitter  around  them  and  their  children  of  all  the 
glittering  vanity  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Then  the  child- 
ren growing  up   and  moving   farther  and   farther 

365 


366    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

away  from  her.  .  .  .  And  she  saw  it  all  looming 
so  darkly  and  so  menacingly  in  the  long,  dark  rooms, 
while  she  sat  waiting  and  watching  by  the  flickering 
flame  of  the  candle. 

Then  her  old  head  nodded  very  slowly  up  and 
down,  as  if  to  say  that  she  recognized  all  the  things 
of  long  ago  which  loomed  so  darkly  and  threaten- 
ingly, that  there  was  not  a  ghost  which  she  did  not 
recognize,  but  that  she  did  not  understand  why  they 
all  thronged  round  her  to-night,  like  a  vision  of 
menace,  a  dance  of  death.  .  .  .  And,  while  she  sat 
and  wondered,  it  was  as  if  each  dancing  phantom 
blacked  out  something  of  the  room  and  the  present 
that  she  still  saw  faintly  gleaming,  blacked  out  one 
outline  after  the  other  with  dancing  phantom  after 
dancing  phantom,  until  at  last  all  was  black  around 
her  .  .  .  and  not  only  the  room  and  the  present 
had  become  black,  but  also  the  pale  visions  of  the 
past:  the  years  of  childhood  and  girlhood;  the 
young  man  whom  she  had  married;  and  the  children; 
and  all  the  life,  yonder,  in  the  white  palaces  amid 
the  tropical  scenery :  black,  everything  became  black, 
until  everything  was  blotted  out,  until  the  dance  of 
all  those  phantoms  was  obliterated  in  shadow  and 
the  old  woman,  nodding  her  head,  still  sat  peering 
into  the  dark,  with  the  flickering  candle  beside  her. 

Thus  she  sat  and  waited;  and,  with  the  darkness 
before  her,  it  was  as  if  she  did  not  see  the  candle, 
now  that  everything  had  become  black.     Thus  she 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     367 

sat  and  waited  and  wondered  whether  many  and 
many  nights  would  still  drag  their  blackness  over 
her:  how  many  black  hours,  how  many  black  nights 
could  the  black  future  still  drag  along?  .  .  .  Until 
at  last  she  heard  a  bell,  clanging  like  a  shrill  alarm 
through  the  livid  darkness.  And  mechanically — 
because  she  was  waiting — she  rose  painfully  and 
took  her  candle.  Through  the  dark  room  and  the 
dim  passage  she  went;  and  the  faint  light  went  with 
her,  so  faint  that  she  did  not  see  it,  that  she  just 
groped  her  way  painfully  through  the  passage  and 
down  the  stairs,  still  holding  high  the  candle.  .  .  . 
The  stairs  seemed  steep  to  her  and  she  went  cau- 
tiously, waiting  on  each  step;  at  each  step  the  faint 
light  of  the  candle  descended  with  her;  and  behind 
her  the  night  accumulated  with  each  step  that  she 
left  behind  her.  .  .  .  She  had  now  reached  the  foot 
of  the  stairs;  and,  slowly  and  painfully,  with  the 
dragging  tread  of  age,  she  went  through  the  hall 
to  the  front  door,  whence  the  alarm  had  rung. 

And  her  trembling  hand  opened  the  door.  Addie 
entered: 

44  Granny,  is  that  you  yourself?  ..." 

44  Yes,  child." 

44 1  came,  Granny  dear,  because  Mamma  said 
that  you  expected  us." 

44  Yes." 

44  Were  you  waiting  up  for  us,  Granny?  " 

44  Yes." 


368    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

He  took  the  candle  out  of  her  hand: 

"  I  have  come  to  say,  Granny  .  .  .  that  there's 
nothing  wrong  with  Uncle  Gerrit.  ..." 

She  nodded  her  head  wisely. 

11  Now  you  won't  wait  any  longer  for  Mamma, 
Granny  .  .  .  and  you'll  go  to  bed,  won't  you?  .  .  ... 
Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you?" 

She  nodded  her  head: 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"What,  Granny  dear?  Shall  I  hold  the  candle 
for  you  and  will  you  go  to  bed  then?  " 

"No,  no.  ..." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  then,  Granny  dear?  " 

"Wait.  ..." 

"Are  you  still  waiting  for  Mamma?" 

"  Yes." 

"  But  perhaps  she  won't  come.  ..." 

She  nodded  her  head  again. 

He  gently  led  her  away  from  where  she  stood 
and  up  the  stairs : 

"  So  you  are  not  going  to  bed  yet?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Are  you  still  expecting  Mamma?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Shall  I  light  the  gas,  Grandmamma?  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  to  prevent  him: 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  It's  dark.  There  is  no 
light." 

"  But  won't  you  have  the  gas  lit,  Grandmamma  ?  " 


THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS     369 

44  There  is  no  light." 

44  You  would  do  better  to  go  to  bed." 

44  Mamma's  coming." 

"  She  will  hardly  come  now,  Granny." 

11  She's  coming." 

A  bell  rang;  and  Addie  started. 

44  She's  coming,"  repeated  the  old  woman. 

Addie  went  downstairs  and  opened  the  door.  It 
was  Constance,  with  a  cab,  in  the  driving  snow. 

44  Mamma!  ..." 

44  I've  come.  ...  I  left  the  doctor  and  Papa 
.    .    .  with  Aunt  Adeline.   ..." 

44  Grandmamma  is  expecting  you   ..." 

They  went  in.  And  it  semed  to  Constance  as 
though,  after  the  whiteness  outside  and  all  the 
despair  yonder,  she  saw  it  snowing  here,  inside  the 
house,  snowing  black,  with  dark,  black  snow-flakes, 
inside  the  hall,  inside  the  rooms;  and  the  face  of 
her  mother,  sitting  beside  the  candle,  stared  at  her, 
like  a  ghost,  with  glassy  eyes.  .    .    . 

44  Mamma!  ..." 

44  Constance,  there's  nothing  wrong  .  .  .  with 
Gerrit?" 

44  No,  oh  no,  Mamma !  " 

44  I'm  glad,  I'm  glad,  dear.  And  there's  nothing 
wrong  .   .    .  with  Ernst  either?" 

44  No,  oh   no,  Mamma!" 

44  So  there's  nothing  wrong  with  any  of  them?" 

44  No,  they're  all  well,  Mamma !  " 


370    THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS 

"  All  well  ...  all  well.    I'm  glad,  dear  .    .    . 
especially  as  to-night  ..." 

"What,  Mamma?" 

11  Is  the  last  time.  The  last  Sunday.  I  am  too 
tired,  dear  .  .  .  and  they  .  .  .  they  are  all  too 
far.  .  .  .  And,  if  there's  nothing  wrong  with  any 
of  them  ...  if  they're  all  well  ..." 

"  Then  .    .    .  ?  " 

11  Then  .  .  .  then  no  more  .  .  .  Sundays.  .  .  . 
And  this  house  ...  is  too  big  .  .  .  and  the  house 
is  so  cold,  so  cold.  The  house  is  so  cold  and  so 
big.  .  .  .  And  the  cold  house  is  so  dark.  .  .  .  And 
Mamma  wants  ..."     ' 

"  What  do  you  want,  Mamma?  " 

"  To  come  to  you,  dear  .  .  .  now  that  you  are 
back  .  .  .  from  Brussels.  .  .  .  To  you,  dear  .  .  . 
Mamma  .  .  .  Mamma  wants  to  come  ...  to 
you.  ..." 

11  Do  you  want  to  come  to  us,  Mamma?  " 

"  Yes,  to  you  .  .  .  dear.  .  .  .  To  you,  dear.  .  .  . 
So  Gerrit  ...  is  well?  " 

"Oh  yes,  Mamma  .    .   .  he's  well.  ..." 

"Then  .    .    .  then  all  is  well.  ..." 

Suddenly  the  candle  flared  up  and  went  out. 

Then  they  lit  the  gas  and  took  the  old  woman  up 
to  bed.  She  submitted  like  a  child.  For  around 
her,  after  her  last  glimmer  of  light,  the  twilight 
had  deepened  into  black  night. 

THE   END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


DEC  14  1932 

AUG  11   1934 
.    6IAH  2; 

27 
REC'D  LO 

OCT  2  5  19^ 

APR  14  1980 

(sc.cw.wifc'80 


i* 


LD  21-50ui-8,'32 


CDS3S33314S 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBI^RY 


